
\ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, i 



CB* 






i 



Shelf ..-._i.^v_ _B_._... 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, 



GLEANINGS 



AT 



SEVENTY-FIVE. 



BY 

SUSAN LUKENS. 




PHILADELPHIA: 

PORTEE & COAXES. 

1873. 



r 



1875 



Sherman & Cc, Printers, 



PREFACE. 



One who was accounted wise — was literary and scientific 
— said that when a man reached the age of seventy, his time 
for active usefulness was past, he should he laid on the shelf, 
(By the way, he did not act in accordance with that opinion, 
continuing his literary labors, &c., until many years past that 
age.) But if any agree with his early assertion, what will 
they think of one in her seventy-sixth year entering on an 
untried path ? 

The reasons— a collection of articles from various sources 
was interesting to myself and my friends. The latter often 
urged their publication. For some I copied portions, but could 
not supply all, and at length I consented to glean from the 
whole a comparatively small number of articles for publication. 

When this was nearly accomplished came many requests 
to add some of the poetical pieces I had written long since, 
most of which were published in sundry periodicals about the 
time they are dated. I had never previously thought of re- 
printing them ; yet here are a few which I venture to put 



Vlll PREFACE. 

forth, with a hope that the contents of the book may cause no 
regret to its readers, or to the gleaner, 

Susan Lukeks. 
Ercildoun, 

11th month, 1872. 

[Since the materials for this publication were prepared for 
the press, the author, Susan Lukens, has been taken away by 
death ; having, after a brief illness, peacefully deceased at her 
residence, at Ercildoun, near Coatesville, Pennsylvania, on 
the First day of the First month, 1873, aged seventy-six years 
within a few days.] 




TABLE OF CONTENTS, 



PAGE 

Eobert Barrow's Shipwreck, &c., 13 

Narrative of John Leifchild, 24 

James Simpson, 25 

Dream of Oliver Paxson, 36 

Abel Haughton, . . . . . . . .37 

Account of Two Friends in Scotland, .... 39 

William Tuchold, 40 

Dr. Payson, 42 

WilUam Crotch, 43 

Duke of Wellington on Victories, 46 

Anecdote of a Bishop of London, 46 

William Blakey, 47 

An Early Marriage Certificate, 49 

Extract from Memoirs of William Bramwell, . . 49 

Extract from Memoirs of Thomas Scattergood, . . 51 

Total Abstinence, . . * 53 

Samuel Fothergill, 54 

Drowsiness, 56 

John Bunyan, 57 

Matthew Warren, 58 

A Dream-Warning, 58 

Silent Rebuke, 63 

Clarke Stevens, 65 

Deborah Morris's Will, 66 

Anthony Benezet, 68 

Hume, the Infidel. 68 



X TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Thomas Waring, . . . . . . . .70 

George Whitefield, &c., . 74 

An Infidel's Death-Bed, . 75 

A Murder Prevented, 76 

Martha Eouth, . . . . . . . .79 

Kowland Hill, 80 

Indian Discourse at a Funeral, 83 

An Indian Witness, 86 

Mehetabel Jenkins, 86 

Caleb Pennock, 87 

Extracts from Jacob Lindley's Journal, .... 91 

A Raven in 1766, 92 

A Student and Duke, 93 

William Kirk and Wife, 93 

Abel Thomas, 95 

Mary Ridgway and Jane Watson, 95 

Letter from Peter Yarnall, 97 

Account respecting Kantucket, ..... 101 

Account respecting Nantucket, by John Fothergill, . 102 

A Dream of Mildred Ratcliffe, 104 

John Woolman's First Service in England, . . . 106 

Divine Guidance and Protection, 107 

Plain Dress, &c., 113 

Mary Dyer's Letter, 113 

Account of Edward Wanton, 117 

John Salkeld, 118 

Preservation of a Family in Ireland, .... 119 

Mary Griffin, 123 

Comfort Collins, 125 

Anecdote of John Fletcher, 126 

Letter from John Thorp, 128 

Remarkable JS'arrative of David Sands, . . . . 129 

Edward Foulke, . 134 

Joseph Lukens, 144 

Eleanor McCarty, 145 

Yalue of Premonitions, 146 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. XI 

PAGE 

A Minister of Berg, 148 

A Dream of Sarah Harrison's, 148 

Joseph Hemphill's Eebuke to a Careless Professor, . 150 

Anecdote of Capt. William Gifford, .... 151 

A Presentiment, 152 

An Indian's Shrewdness, 153 

S ensibility of an Indian, 154 



POETICAL PIECES. 

The Painter of Seville, 155 

Death-Bed of a Slave-Taker, 161 

Fragments, 163 

Lines Written in an Invalid's Chamber, . . . 167 

Humihty, 168 

Safety in Our Father's House, 169 

Fugitives in Boston, 170 

Lines Written at Tunessassah, 175 

A Fragment, ... 176 

Eetribution, 177 

To My Father, 179 

Lines on the Death of a Young Girl, . . . . 180 

To an Aged Friend, 181 

The Ground on which we stand, 182 

Mother and Son, 183 

A Mother's Prayer, . ' 184 

Death-Bed of a Slaveholder, 185 

To S. B., on Idols, 188 

Beer-Lahai-Roi, 189 

Strive for the Right, 190 

A Contrast, 192 

On a Saying of Caleb Pennock's, 193 

To S. L., 194 

The Tempted, 195 

Thanksgiving, 196 



Stanzas, 197 



Xll TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

Impromptu, 199 

To , on a Place of llest, 199 

Household Treasures, 200 

Hymn, 201 

Mary Dockstater, 202 

''Mother, Pray for Me," ...... 204 

Living Water, 205 

''Follow Me," 206 

The Upper Chamber, ....... 206 

"Pray without Ceasing," 208 

To , on Unbelief, 209 

Biding the Storm, 210 

Resignation, 211 

The Christian's Path, 212 

A Contrite Spirit, 213 

Thirsting No More, 214 

Hospitality, . . 215 




m- 



GLEANINGS 



AT 



SEVENTY -FIVE. 



EOBEET BAEEOW. 

Robert Barrow was born in Lancashire, England, 
but was removed in his infancy into the neighborhood of 
Kendal, in Westmoreland. He was convinced of the 
truth in 1652, soon after the first meetings of Friends 
were settled in that county; and, as did many others, he 
often suffered from fines, distraint of goods, and long 
imprisonments. 

About the yea.Y 1668, he received a gift in the ministry, 
and was a zealous laborer in the Gospel for twentj^-six 
years. His wife was a daughter of Christopher Bris- 
brown, who, for conscientiously refusing to pay tithes, 
was, at the age of seventy-seven, imprisoned and (even 
contrary to the law under which his persecutors pre- 
tended to act) kept in close confinement more than six- 
teen months, when he was released by death. 

Robert Barrow, on his death-bed (in Philadelphia), 
often spoke most affectionately of his wife. On one occa- 
sion he said: ''I married her for the truth's sake, — she 
was God's gift to me. When I left her, it was as if I was 
going to my grave. Neither gold nor silver, riches nor 

2 



14 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

honor, should have parted us, — nothing but that I might 
be obedient to the Lord, and keep my peace with God.'^ 

Notwithstanding the various fines collected from him, 
Robert Barrow had, by industr}^, accumulated an estate; 
and feeling himself called to more extensive travels for 
the truth's sake, he, about the year 1690, placed his prop- 
erty in the hands of his son, reserving therefrom an 
annuity sufficient for the comfortable maintenance of 
himself and family. 

In the Eleventh month, 1690, he was in London ; and 
having attended many meetings with George Fox, he 
was with him during his short illness, until ''he sweetly 
fell asleep in the Lord," whose blessed truth he had 
livingly and powerfully preached in the meeting but two 
days before. 

He travelled twice under a religious concern in Scot- 
land and Ireland; and in 1694 he believed it right to 
visit in gospel love the American continent and adjacent 
islands. He felt it a trial at his age to cross the ocean 
and travel in a foreign land, but above all to take, probably 
a last farewell of the beloved companion of his life. In 
speaking of the expected difficulties and dangers of his 
way, he remarked, that he had rather immediately lay 
down his natural life, if by so doing he could keep his 
peace with God, than go to America. 

In London he met with Robert Wardell, another ancient 
minister who was under a similar concern. There also 
were Samuel Jennings, and Thomas Duckett, of Phila- 
delphia, who, having been on religious service in England, 
were about returning home. 

About the close of the j^ear 1694, Robert Barrow and 
Robert Wardell arrived in America and travelled through 
the various provinces, attending 328 meetings in less than 
a year. 



ROBERT BARROW. 15 

Near the end of the year 1695, they passed over to the 
West India Islands, and after much service in Bermudas 
and Antigua, sailed to Jamaica, which they reached the 
4th of the Second month, 1696. Althougli at this time 
these ancient Friends were both indisposed, they con- 
tinued diligent in their gospel labors for about two weeks. 
Robert Wardell then rapidly sank under the effect of the 
climate, and after four days' confinement, died on the 22d 
of the same month. He departed in great peace, which 
condition of mind appears to have been mercifullj^ granted 
to him throughout his illness. To the woman Friend at 
whose house he lay, he said, ''The Lord reward thee for 
th}^ tender care; it makes me think of m}^ dear wife. I 
know not whether I may ever see her more ; but, how- 
ever, the will of God be done. I am, and was willing to 
be contented with the will of God, whether life or death, 
before I came hither; and I bless God I am not afraid to 
die." He continued to the end giving pertinent exhorta- 
tions to those w4io came to visit him, concerning the 
education of their children, and the support of proper 
discipline in the church ; having a desire, as he told 
them, that Friends might walk answerable to God's love 
to them. 

Robert Barrow remained on the island four months 
after the decease of his companion. He was very unwell 
all the time of his visit, but was enabled to attend every 
meeting as it came in course, except one. On the 23d of 
the Sixth month he embarked to return to Philadelphia. 
The other passengers were Jonathan Dickinson, wife, and 
infant son, and Benjamin Allen. On board were seven 
mariners, twelve negroes, and one Indian girl. The}^ 
had calms for many days, loss of an anchor, and devia- 
tions from their proper course, caused by the master's 
fears of encountering the French fleet. On the 18th of 
Seventh month the master had his leg broken, and the 



16 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

Indian girl died. A northeast storm set in on the 22d, 
which, early on the morning of the 23d, drove the vessel 
on the coast of Florida. The storm subsided towards 
daylight, and they found themselves on a beach of sand, 
which was left bare by every receding wave. There 
were Robert Barrow, an aged man, who had been sick 
more than five months ; the captain, whose leg had been 
recently broken; Benjamin Allen, who had been very ill 
most of the voyage ; a delicate woman and sick child, 
besides several others. * 

They saw a countr}^ without trees, whose only vegeta- 
tion was the shrubby palmetto growing on the sand-hills. 
Under some of these bushes, which broke the violence of 
the wind, but gave no protection from the rain, they 
made a fire, and the invalids were placed around it. Most 
of the seamen and negroes were employed in carrying 
their chests and provisions on shore. 

While thus employed, two Indians rapidly approached 
them, foaming with their exertions in running, and having 
Spanish knives in their hands. They each seized one of 
the seamen and dragged him towards the group by the 
fire. Some of the crew would have killed the assailants, 
but Jonathan Dickinson persuaded them to offer no re- 
sistance, and advised them to put their trust in the Lord. 
He then, w^hilst the Indians stood looking with wild and 
furious countenances on the invalids, offered them some 
pipes and tobacco, which the}^ eagerly seized and departed 
rapidly as they came. The Friends knew the Indians of 
Florida were accounted cannibals, and cruel usage and 
painful death appeared before them. But some of them 
were favored to seek after and obtain a portion of deep, 
quiet retirement of mind, in which they were given some 
hope, for which in secret they blessed the name of the 
Lord, in whom was their onl}^ trust. 

Knowing that the Spanish nation had great influence 



ROBERT BARROW. 17 

over the Florida Indians, the greater part of the company 
agreed to endeavor to pass for Spaniards, one of the 
seamen being competent to act as spokesman in that 
language. But Robert Barrow could not assent to the 
falsehood. 

Soon great numbers of Indians arrived, and most of 
them commenced taking from the vessel all that remained 
in it, but the cacique or king, with about thirty others, 
rushed upon the little band who were quietly sitting 
around the fire. The Indians were armed like the first 
two who came, except the cacique, who had a bayonet. 
They cried out ''Nicholeer," meaning English, but were 
not understood, and the captives were silent. They then 
cried ^'Espania,'' Spanish, to which some of the seamen 
assented. During this time the little company sat calm 
and still, under the covering of the spirit of prayer ; when 
the cacique placed himself behind Jonathan Dickinson, 
and one of his band behind each of the other prisoners. 
Their knives were elevated, and they looked to their king, 
as if for a signal to commence the work of slaughter. 

They were at first loud in words, but the quietness of 
their prisoners seemed to affect their minds, and they also 
became silent ; though they stood in the same threatening 
position for a quarter of an hour, their countenances had 
fallen. They then proceeded to open the chests, &c., and 
divided the contents among themselves. They stripped 
of most of their clothing all the prisoners except R. Bar- 
row, the captain, and J. Dickinson's wife and child. 

The cacique appeared to feel some kindness towards 
them, and at his suggestion they erected a tent, and 
gathered some leaves to lie on. They endeavored to 
obtain permission from the king to pass northward along 
the beach, desiring to reach St. Augustine, but he said 
no, they should go southward with him. The Indians 



18 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

seemed to doubt the prisoners being Spaniards, and often 
asked if they were not ''Nicholeer ;^' on the 25th the king 
addressed the question to Robert Barrow, who answered 
in the affirmative. On this the company were stripped of 
most of the little clothing they had previously been allowed 
to retain. The prisoners were then ordered to march. 
One of the negroes was allowed to assist the captain, but 
J. Dickinson's wife was obliged to cany her child, each 
of the others being laden with the spoil. Their course 
was south, and for five miles they waded through deep 
sand under an oppressive sun. 

They were then ferried across an inlet to the Indian 
town, where they passed the night. On the 26th, the little 
band were gathered into silence, and some of them, as at 
sundry other times, were favored to feel the presence of the 
Lord in the midst of them. On this occasion, R. Barrow 
was much favored in testimon}^, and also in supplication, 
that if it was his Heavenly Father's will, they might be 
preserved from the perils around them. It was a season 
of refreshing and strengthening. The heart of the cacique 
was softened, and he told the prisoners they might depart ; 
which they did 28th of Seventh month, the cacique pro- 
tecting them to the last. He furnished a boat and a small 
stock of provisions for the invalids and weak ones. 

After various dangers, especially from a rough sea, they 
landed and passed the night of the 29th on shore, and 
met those of their companions who had come by land. 

On the 30th, great numbers of Indians from St. Lucia, 
came fiercely upon them, crying '' Nicholeer ;" all who had 
any clothing were quickly stripped of it ; the Indians ap- 
peared much enraged, and drew their arrows, but suddenly 
became calm, and R. Barrow, J. Dickinson, his wife and 
child, were sent in a canoe over an inlet into the town. 
The Indians there seemed even more enraged than the 



ROBERT BARROW. 19 

others. Those who had rowed them over, sprang into the 
water to save themselves. Arrows were shot towards 
them, but the wife of the cacique and some others inter- 
ceded for the lives of the prisoners. 

They were taken on shore, when a great contest arose 
among the Indians, some wishing to kill, others to save 
them. Many arrows were shot ; J. Dickinson's wife re- 
ceived several severe blows, and one Indian offered to 
cut her throat, but on the interference of her husband 
desisted. A handful of sand was thrust into the mouth 
of the babe, but the wife of the cacique rescued them. 

The chief Indians held a council, at the close of 
which some articles by way of clothing were given to 
the prisoners. 

Eighth month 1st. The cacique and women appeared 
kind, but they were told they should be taken to the next 
town, in which was a company of " Nicholeers" who were 
to be killed. 

At ten o'clock at night, they were hurried awa}', with 
an Indian for a guide, while men and boys followed them 
for miles, pelting them as tliey went. The night was cold, 
but the day very hot, and they suffered much from fatigue, 
exhaustion, and want of water. At length they met the 
cacique of the town of Jece, which they were approach- 
ing. He appeared kind, said he would be their friend, 
and send them to Augustine. When they entered his 
town, he brought water and washed R. Barrow's feet, 
which had suffered grievously from stumps and stones on 
the way ; there were many holes in them in which a finger 
might be laid. On the 3d the cacique left them to de- 
mand a share of the money he understood was raised 
from the wreck of their vessel. 

Then a storm of unusual fury occurred, which drove 
the sea into the town, and forced the inhabitants to leave 



20 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

it. For several days the prisoners had no food or fresh 
water. The infant received sustenance from Indian 
women, which sustained its life. 

On the 11th the cacique returned ; he appeared incensed 
against his prisoners, and on being reminded of his prom- 
ise to send them to St. Augustine, made many excuses. 
At length concluding to go thither himself, he consented 
to take one of the company — the seaman who spoke 
Spanish — with him. They left on the 18th. Food was 
scarce, and the prisoners suffered much from hunger ; they 
would pick up the gills and entrails of fish, and thank- 
fully drank the water in which the Indians had boiled 
their fish. Yet through all, the confidence of some did 
not fail ; they quietly trusted that the Lord would work 
their deliverance. 

On the 2d of Ninth month the old cacique returned, ac- 
companied b}^ twelve Spaniards, sent by the governor of 
Augustine, who, having heard of shipwrecks, feared they 
might be of vessels he had recently despatched ; and he 
sent this force to protect the crews, with orders to their 
captain to save those who had escaped from the wrecks, 
of whatever country they might be. The crew of another 
shipwrecked vessel was also at Jece. On the 3d, R. Bar- 
row and thirteen others, accompanied by four Indians, 
set out in a boat for Augustine ; they had been tvvo daj's 
without food, when they were overtaken b}^ those of the 
two wrecks they had left behind them, but they could 
spare them only a few berries ; all, during this journey, 
were frequently two days without anything to eat. On 
the 10th they passed a town, where, their Spanish guide 
informed them, the shipwrecked crew of a Dutch vessel 
had been killed and eaten twelve months before. The 
weather became very cold, and being obliged to encamp 
out at night, though they made large fires, they suffered 



ROBERT BARROW. 21 

severely. On the 13th they were forced to wade to their 
boats, and after going two leagues in them, were landed 
in a marsh, through which they had to pass a mile, and 
then walk five or six leagues to the residence of a Spanish 
sentinel. The northwest wind was violent, and the 
stoutest thought they could not survive that day. After 
going two miles, Benjamin Allen became stiff, his speech 
failed, and he began to foam at the mouth. J. Dickinson 
ran on several miles to endeavor to obtain help, but it 
was too late. When R. Barrow came to the place where he 
was laid, he stopped and spoke to him ; he was too far 
gone to answer, but he cried piteously. Five of the com- 
pany perished that daj^, four of whom were well in the 
morning. 

J. Dickinson, his wife and child, reached the sentinel's 
house, about an hour after nightfall ; R. Barrow in less 
than two hours afterward. Some of the company missed 
the house and travelled thirty-six hours without inter- 
mission. Those who reached the house were in great 
pain, their feet extremely bruised, the skin entirely off, 
and a mass of sand and blood caked to them. After a 
night of suffering they were forced to proceed, though 
the wind was high as the previous day. The house of the 
next sentinel was on the north side of an inlet. He came 
across in a canoe for them, would not suffer them to enter 
his house, but caused them to build a fire under the lee 
of it ; in half an hour gave each a cup of cassena, and 
two quarts of Indian corn to be divided among all, then 
bade them depart to the next sentinel's house, one league 
farther. There they were kindly received, and furnished 
with a plentiful repast. 

!Next day a canoe arrived for them, sent by the gov- 
ernor of Augustine. The day was cold, and the company 
in a suffering condition, but two hours before sundown 



22 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

they reached Augustine, and were taken to the governor's 
house. He sent Mary Dickinson to his wife's apartments, 
and kindly cared for the others. They were quartered 
among the inhabitants, who were very kind to them, and 
clothed them with the best they could procure. R. Bar- 
row was suffering severely from diarrhoea, which reduced 
him very low. 

After signing an obligation to pay for the provisions 
and clothing the}^ had purchased, they parted from the 
governor with mutually kind feelings ; and 29th of Ninth 
month, with a captain and six soldiers, sailed to Santa 
Cruz, where they passed the night, being supplied by the 
Indians with such provisions as they needed. 

On the 2d of Tenth month they reached the town of 
St. Mary, where the}^ made such provision as they could 
for their journey to Carolina. They left St. Mary on the 
5th, with seven large canoes, seven Spaniards, and more 
than thirty Indians to pilot and row them. After much 
wet and cold travelling, during which R. Barrow could 
neither be made warm, nor obtain natural rest, they 
reached the first settlement in Carolina on the 22d. 

This belonged to Richard Bennet, who received them 
very kindly, provided for them plentifuU}^, and treated 
their Spanish conductors with great hospitality. On the 
24th they reached the country-seat of Governor Blake, 
who showed them much kindness, and sent R. Barrow to 
the house of his neighbor, Margaret Bammers, an ancient 
Friend, who, he said, would be careful of him and nurse 
him. The others went to Charleston, where they sepa- 
rated. 

R. Barrow continued yerj weak. Early in First month 
1697, he was taken into Charleston, where he lay at the 
house of Mary Cross. In a letter to his wife he writes 
thus of his kind hostess : — 



ROBERT BARROW. 23 

" At last we arrived at Ashley River ; and it pleased 
God I had the great fortune to have a good nurse, one 
whose name you have heard of, a Yorkshire woman, born 
within two miles of York ; her maiden name was Mary 
Fisher, she that sjjake to the great Turk ; afterwards 
William Baylej^'s wife. She is now my landlady and 
nurse. She is a widow of a second husband ; her name is 
now Mary Cross."* 

R. Barrow was anxious to reach Philadelphia, and 
though the captain who was to take J. Dickinson and 
family, was unwilling to receive him on board in his weak 
condition, his earnest entreaties prevailed. The}^ em- 
barked First month 18th, and arrived 1st of Second 
month. Many Friends went on board to see R. Barrow, 
he being too weak from his disorder (which had been on 
him fourteen weeks) to be removed that night. His 
mind was strong, and he rejoiced to see his friends ; ex- 
pressed great satisfaction that the Lord had granted his 
request to bring him to that place, that he might lay down 
his body there. Xext da}^, having wrapped him in a 
blanket, and placed him in a hammock, divers Friends 
assisted in carr3ing him to the dwelling of Samuel Car- 
penter, where, having man}^ of his friends around him, 
his heart seemed to overflow with gratitude to his Creator. 
He said, "Mj^ heart is yet strong, and my memory and 
understanding good." He continued in a sweet, thank- 
ful frame of mind, saying, ^' The Lord has been very good 
to me all along, unto this very day ; and this very morn- 
ing hath sweetly refreshed me." ''It is a good thing to 
have a conscience void of offence towards God, and to- 

^ Mary Cross was married to her second husband, John Cross, 
of London, in the year 1678. They emigrated to South Carolina, 
where, it is supposed, she passed the remainder of her eventful life. 



24 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

wards men." "The Lord, in bringing me hither hath 
given me the desire of my heart, and if I die here I am 
very well satisfied, and believe my wife will be well satis- 
fied also, for as the Lord gave her to me, and gave me to 
her, even so have we given one another up." " The Lord 
is with me and all is well ; I have nothing of guilt upon 
me, and have nothing to do but to die, and if I die now, 
I shall die like an innocent child ; " — with much more of 
the same import, and he gave much solid advice to his 
friends. On the 4th he dictated a letter to his wife, after 
which he seemed gradually to sink. A friend who stood 
by his bedside, remarking in a low voice, he believed 
that Robert was not sensible, he immediately said, "I 
have my senses yery perfect, and thank the Lord that He 
hath not left me, but preserved me in my understanding 
to this moment." The last sentence understood was, 
" God is good still." Then, after lying quietly for a time, 
he gently passed away. Second month 4th, 1697. 



JOHN LEIFCHILD. 

John Leifchild was formerly " minister of an Indepen- 
dent Chapel in England." He relates the following as a 
singular lapse of memory which once befell him, and 
which he never before or afterwards experienced. 
" When I rose from sleep, I could not recollect any por- 
tion of the discourse, which I had prepared on the day 
before; and what was most strange, I could not even 
remember the text of the prepared sermon. I was per- 
plexed, and walked out before breakfast in Kensington 
Gardens. While there, a particular text occurred to my 
mind ; and my thoughts seemed to dwell upon it so much 
that I resolved to preach from it, without further attempt- 



JAMES SIMPSON. 25 

ing to recall what I had prepared, — a thing which I had 
never ventured to do, during all my ministr3\ From 
this text I preached, and it was, ' Weeping may endure 
for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.' I preached 
with great liberty, and in the course of the sermon, I 
quoted the lines, — 

* Beware of desperate steps ! the darkest day — 
Live till to-morrow — will have passed away.' 

'^ I afterwards learned, that a man in despair, had that 
very morning gone to the Serpentine to drown himself in 
it. For this purpose he had filled his pockets with stones, 
hoping to sink at once. Some passengers, however, dis- 
turbed him, while on the brink, and he returned to Ken- 
sington, intending to drown himself in the dusk of the 
evening. On passing my Chapel, he saw a numl)er of 
people crowding into it, and thought he would join them 
in order to pass away the time. His attention was riv- 
eted to the sermon, which seemed to be in part com- 
posed for him ; and when he heard me quote the lines 
alluded to, he resolved to abandon his suicidal in- 
tentions.'^ 



JAMES SIMPSOISr. 

James Simpson, son of John and Hannah Simpson, 
was born in Bucks County, Penns3dvania, on the 19th of 
the Third month, 1743. His father died when he was 
about three years of age. During his minorit}', he was 
much exposed to raw and profane companions, and 
seldom, if ever, had an opportunity of attending relig- 
ious meetings of the Society of Friends, although he had 
a birthright in the Society. His mother married a Pres- 



26 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

byterian, and her children were brought up under his 
care. 

James learned the trade of a cooper, and after the 
marriage of his elder brother, John, went to reside with 
him, nearly four miles from Buckingham Meeting, of 
which he was a member, and of which he became a dili- 
gent attender when in health. Having passed through 
deep baptisms, he hadhumbl}^ to acknowledge the Divine 
goodness, in manifesting the gospel light to his benight- 
ed soul, when almost sunk into a state of despair. This 
he compared to the light of the sun, breaking from thick 
clouds, and darting its ra3's through a glass window into 
a room (which in the dark, miglit have been supposed to 
be clean and in order), discovering not only all that was 
out of order, but even the cobwebs, the spiders and the 
insects that had taken up an abode therein, manifesting 
that there was much to be done within the chamber. 

The Divine Light also showed him an extensive pros- 
pect of labor without ; and he felt his soul raised to an 
ecstasy of hope and joy, in an evidence that he was re- 
ceived into favor with his Heavenly Father. In the ex- 
pandings of Divine love, his vision was extended to 
almost all parts of the country ; and his heart being 
filled with affection to his fellow-creatures, he felt as 
though he was commissioned to preach the gospel of 
salvation to them. A day and place, he remarked, not 
to be forgotten by him ! 

From this time he believed that he was anointed, and, 
in due season, he was called to the gospel ministry ; soon 
after which he had a dream that sealed deep instruction 
on his mind. He thought he was standing by the meet- 
ing-house at Buckingham, and saw a number of iron 
pots standing out, open to the firmament ; he saw the}^ 
were covered with rust, and there was much rubbish 



JAMES SIMPSON. . 27 

within them. As he looked at them, a person who stood 
by told him it was his business to cleanse and scour 
these pots. James felt himself weak, and told the person 
he could not do it, — that his strength was not sufficient 
to scour one of them. The person told him he was not 
required to do more than his strength would warrant ; 
but that he must begin at one, do something at it, and if 
he could not finish it at one time, leave it, and try it 
again; and so on, working at them from one time to 
another ; and his strength would be increased in propor- 
tion to his labor, till he would be enabled to finish the 
work that was given him to do. 

Being of a weakly constitution, and the trade of a 
cooper not agreeing with his health, and also being poor, 
he was often much discouraged, fearing (as he expressed) 
that he should become chargeable to the parish. He 
therefore engaged, with a partner, in a small retail store 
in Buckingham. While thus employed, his ministry 
being approved, he joined with several Friends in a 
religious visit to the families of members within the 
limits of Buckingham Monthly Meeting. Previously to 
entering on the service, he had purchased a hogshead of 
rum for sale. In the course of the visits, while sitting in 
a family at Plumstead, the hogshead of rum came before 
him, with such melancholy reflections on the mischief it 
might occasion, as produced much discouragement, and 
a desire to relinquish the service he was engaged in, and 
return home. This desire he expressed to his friends, 
but they not being willing to part with him, he accom- 
panied them to several places ; but his uneasiness con- 
tinued, and the hogshead of rum being constantl}^ before 
him, he was entirel}^ silent. Some of his companions 
spoke a few words at some places, but at length all vocal 
service closed, and they sat in several families in silence. 



28 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

A state of general depression having at length taken 
place among them, they took an opportunity together to 
search for the cause. James again requested to be re- 
leased, saying he was a Jonah aboard the ship. Oliver 
Paxson then fixing his eyes on him, inquired his reasons, 
saying : " The eyes of the people are upon thee ; if thou 
desert us, we cannot proceed without thee to satis- 
faction.'^ James then informed them what he had done, 
and how the hogshead of rum was continually before 
him. He was asked what he wished to do, and told them 
it now appeared to be his duty to go home and tell his 
partner to dispose of that rum to such only as would not 
be likely to make a bad use of it, and that no more spir- 
ituous liquors should be purchased in his name ; which 
his friends agreeing to, he went home and made arrange- 
ments with his partner to that effect. He then felt his 
mind relieved, and proceeded on the family visits to sat- 
isfaction. From this time he steadily bore a testimony 
against the selling and unnecessarj^ use of spirituous 
liquors. 

As it was customary to keep ardent spirits for sale in 
country stores, and the use of it was at that time gen- 
eral among Friends and others, it is probable these cir- 
cumstances might have discouraged him from continu- 
ing in the business of a storekeeper. 

He next undertook brush-making; but the want of a 
market for his manufactures was discouraging. Still he 
was anxious to do something to gain an honest liveli- 
hood, and often waded through deep discouragement of 
mind; under which, he said, he frequently put up his pe- 
titions to his great Master, to open his way and show 
him w^hat he should do. And such was his humiliation, 
that he was willing to exert his little bodily strength, 
without regarding how mean the employment might ap- 



JAMES SIMPSON. 29 

pear in the sight of the people. While under this close 
trial, he had a remarkable dream, in which he was in- 
structed in the whole art of raising broom corn, and 
making brooms; and considering it a kind interposition 
of Providence on his behalf, he resolved to follow the 
directions thus communicated, and clearl}^ impressed on 
his mind. He therefore procured seed, planted it, nursed 
and raised the broom corn, prepared it as directed, and 
in due time was able to realize the substantial broom. 
Pleased with his success, he took a small load of them to 
Philadelphia, where he exhibited them in the market for 
sale. He waited some time for purchasers without much 
success, when he noticed that an oysterman, who was 
travelling the street with his wheelbarrow, and making 
proclamation of what he had to dispose of, had cus- 
tomers ; a thought occurred, that he was standing there 
idle, because his pride would not suffer him to do like- 
wise ; he therefore took a bundle of brooms on his 
shoulder ; and as he waliied the street offering them for 
sale, was met by Nicholas Wain, who accosted him with 
his usual pleasantry, though with marks of surprise at 
his employment, and said it would never do for James 
Simpson to be peddling brooms about the street. James 
replied the occupation was honest, and the method he 
had adopted for the .sale appeared necessary. Nicholas 
finally purchased his brooms, but advised him to follow 
some other business. James could not agree to that, so 
he pursued the broom-making, in addition to brush- 
making; and by these means supported himself by the 
labor of his own hands. 

In the Second month, 1*789, James Simpson took a 
certificate from Buckingham to Horsham Monthly Meet- 
ing, and at the Billet (now called Hatborongh) he pursued 
the business of making brooms and brushes, — carried on 

3 



30 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

some coopering business, and kept earthenware, with a 
few other articles for sale. 

In the Tenth month, 1Y90, he married Martha Shoe- 
maker, a widow. His last residence was at Frankford. 

He at one time observed to a Friend, that he appre- 
hended his time w^as drawing to a close, and he had 
thought of leaving some notes of particular visitations 
and divine openings, which he had experienced in his 
youthful days, saying, he believed his path in some re- 
spects had been singular. He mentioned many subjects, 
and proposed that his friend should at a future time com- 
mit them to writing (from his dictation), which was 
promised, but postponed^ and never accomplished. A 
memoir of him has been published, but it is cause for 
regret that his concern was not attended to. 

In the character of James Simpson were some singular- 
ities and eccentricities, yet through and over all these the 
purity and originality of his mind were often displayed 
in a remarkable manner; evincing, with clear demonstra- 
tion, that the cause of truth and righteousness was dear 
to his heart. The instructive application of his parables, 
similes, and metaphors, drawn from common occurrences, 
from natural things, and familiar objects, was peculiarly 
impressive. When in his usual health, he manifested a 
fear of death, but at the last all fear was taken away. A 
friend, calling to see him, found him lying on his bed. 
James said he had been very poorly, but then felt easier; 
the friend left him, but was soon recalled, when James 
appeared to be composed, and said to him, ''I believe I 
am going to leave 3^ou.^' A few minutes after he said to 
his wife, '' My dear, I am going to leave you." His pulse 
being sunk, it then appeared probable to his friends that 
his close was near. He supplicated that if his day's 
w^ork was done, his bands might be loosed, and he re- 



JAMES SIMPSON. 31 

ceived into rest, and not continued to be a burden to his 
friends. Shortly after, he requested to be turned over, 
then said, "It is done! It is done!^' — after which he 
breathed a few times, then quietly departed, on the 9th of 
Fourth month, 1811, over 68 years of age. 

James Simpson was at times subject to deep dejection, 
when he thought himself unable to do anything, but even 
when he felt most debased, he would, under religious ex- 
ercise, be as lively in testimony as in times of more 
cheerfulness. Indeed, it was remarked he was frequently 
most favored, when raised from one of those seasons of 
deep depression. He once went to Philadelphia, with a 
certificate, to visit the families of Friends there, and 
Sarah Harrison, who was under a like concern, uniting 
with him in his prospect, David Bacon, an experienced 
elder, was appointed to accompany them. On the last 
day of their visits they were to commence with the family 
of Governor Dickinson, whose wife and daughters were 
members. During the previous night James became 
much depressed, and thought he could not go to the 
Governor's house ; so in the morning he determined to go 
home and leave the other friends to perform that visit. 
Thinking, however, it would be dishonorable not to in- 
form David Bacon of his purpose, he went to his house, 
with his horse saddled and the baggage on. After fast- 
ening his horse, he went in and told David he had come 
to bid him farewell. ''Farewell!" said David, ''why, 
where art thou going ?'' '' Home," said James. '' Thou 
must not go ; where is thy horse ?" ''It is at the door." 
David told his man to take the horse back to the stable 
and have it taken care of. He then took James with him 
to Sarah Harrison's, and they all proceeded to Governor 
Dickinson's house. On the way they were obliged to 
keep a constant watch on James, iest he should desert 



32 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

them. Just before reaching the Goyernor's house, James 
clapped his hands together, earnestly exclaiming, " If I 
live through this da}^, I shall live forever." When they 
entered the house, the Governor was not present. James 
sat down, threw his hat under the chair, and placed his 
head between his knees. After some time the Governor 
slid quietly in, and James soon began slowly to raise his 
head, and commenced a discourse which, for religious 
weight and instruction, Sarah Harrison thought she had 
never heard excelled. 

James Simpson, while engaged in religious service 
within the compass of Concord Quarterly Meeting, ap- 
pointed a meeting to be held at Providence ; but after 
notice thereof had been given, an attack of his constitu- 
tional depression came on, and he was dipped into a 
state of self-loathing, and so stripped of all feeling of 
ability for service that he concluded he could not go to 
the meeting, and must go home. His companion, finding 
his efforts to change James's purpose unavailing, proposed 
they should remain where they were that night, adding, 
that in the morning, if it should seem best, would be time 
enough to set out for home. The morning came, but it 
was still night to James; his depression continued, and 
his desire to go home was not lessened. His friend then 
proposed that they should sit down together, to seek in 
silence and quietude, the Master's will in the matter. As 
they sat a precious solemnity fell upon them, and after a 
time James rose, exclaimi;ng in a cheerful, thankful man- 
ner, " I can go to the meeting now ! The Master has 
promised to send his servant Eli Yarn all there to pray 
for me." 

They went to the meeting-house, and the people gath- 
ered. After they were settled, Eli Yarnall came in. He 
was soon bowed in vocal supplication, that the Lord 



JAMES SIMPSON. 33 

would be pleased to support and comfort his afflicted 
servant. His concern seemed to be confined to the 
strengthening of his sorrowful fellow-laborer in the gos- 
pel, who had been in such a low^ place. James was then, 
with renew^ed faith in the sufficiency of Divine grace to 
qualify him for the service called for at bis hand, enabled 
to travail in spirit for the everlasting well-being of those 
present ; and he was soon raised on his feet and enabled 
to preach the gospel of life and salvation with fervency 
and power. 

At the meeting, Eli Yarnall spoke of having been 
dragged there that day. He w^as at work in a field, w4ien 
he felt an impression on his mind, as though one had 
spoken to him, that he must go to Providence Meeting 
that day. He was startled ; no information of the ap- 
pointment had reached him, and he said to himself, '^It 
is not the day of the week on w^hich Providence Meeting 
is held.^' He reasoned against the impression, but after 
some internal conflict submitted to it, and went to his 
house. His wife observed to him it was not the day on 
which Providence Meeting was held, but faithful to the 
impression of duty he w^ent, the time he had spent in 
reasoning against it causing him to be late at meeting. 

SERMON BY JAMES SIMPSON. 
(A few months previous to his decease.) 

" What I am going to relate is but a sim])le stor}^, and 
it is very probable some of 3'ou may have heard me tell it 
before; but it has taken such possession of my mind, 
that I thought I would just drop it for your considera- 
tion. When I was a young man, there lived in our 
neighborhood a Presbyterian w^ho w^as universally re- 
ported to be a very liberal man, and uncommonh' upright 



34 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

in his dealings. When he had an^^ of the produce of his 
farm to dispose of, he made it an invariable rule to give 
good measure, over good, rather more than could be re- 
quired of him. One of his friends observing him fre- 
quently doing so, questioned him why he did it, told him 
he gave too much, and said it could not be to his own 
advantage. Now, my friends, mark the answer of this 
Presbyterian : ' God Almighty has permitted me but one 
journey through this world, and when I am gone I cannot 
return to rectify mistakes.' Think of this, friends ; but 
one journey through the world ! The hours that are 
past are gone forever, and the actions in those hours can 
never be recalled ! I do not throw it out as a charge, 
nor mean to imply that any of 3^ou are dishonest, but the 
words of this good Presbyterian have often impressed 
my mind, and, I think, in an instructive manner. But 
one journey ! We are allowed but one journey through 
the world, therefore let none of us say, ' My tongue is 
nn' own, I'll talk what I please ; my time is my own, I'll 
go where I please ; I can go to meeting, or, if the world 
calls me, I'll sta}^ at home ; it's all my own.' Now this 
won't do, friends. It is as impossible for us to live as 
we list, and then come here and worship, as it is for a 
lamp to burn without oil. It is utterly impossible. And 
I was thinking what a droll composition man is ; he is 
composed of dollars, cents, newspapers, &c., and bring- 
ing, as it were, the world on his back, he comes here to 
perform worship, or at least he would have it appear so. 
Now friends, I just drop it before we part, for your con- 
sideration. Let each one trj^ himself, and see how it is 
with his own soul." 



JAMES SIMPSON. 35 



JAMES SIMPSON AND A DOCTOR. 

The foilowing circumstance was related by James 
Simpson after his return from a religious visit to some of 
the Eastern States. It occurred whilst he was travelling 
in Rhode Island. 

'' I met with a young doctor, whom I took to be a 
deist. I asked him if he was not a deist, and he frankly 
acknowledged he was. I then remarked to him that I 
supposed it was of no use to talk with him about the 
Scriptures, for he did not believe them. His answer was, 
'No, sir, I do not.' 'Well,' replied I, 'as it is reason 
thou buildest upon, render me a reason for thy disbelief.' 
That he thought he could readily do, 'for,' said he, 'there 
are so many foolish, nonsensical passages in them, that 
it is beneath a man of good understanding to believe 
them.' I then requested him to single out one of those 
foolish passages, and the one he fixed upon was the 
woman being cured of a grievous disease by touching the 
hem of our Saviour's garment ; which he considered foolish 
nonsense, and that it was beneath a man of good under- 
standing to believe such tales. 

"I tlien told him I supposed he was well acquainted 
with the power of electricity. 'Yes,' he said, 'he was.' 
'Well,' said I, 'supposing thou had never seen or heard 
tell of it, and a stranger, as I am, should come from 
another country and tell thee he could fill thee so full of 
fire, that another touching thy garment, the fire would fly 
out of thee into him; wouldst thou not think it a foolish 
tale, that was not worth thy notice?' After some pause, 
he said he thought he should. I then remarked to him, 
'If a man can be filled so full of fire that, another touch- 
ing his garment, the fire will go into him (as this we 
know to be the case), why not admit the Saviour of the 



36 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

world to be so filled with heavenly virtue that, another 
touching his garment, virtue should go out of him into 
them? at which he sat a considerable time silent; and, 
finding he was in a better state to hear me^ I asked him 
this question: ' Hast thou never been sitting in thy room, 
thinking little or nothing (not nothing, because thoughts 
are never quite still), and all at once something alarms 
thee — perhaps it is a gun shot off out yonder — and so 
soon as that sound strikes thy ear, thy eye is turned to 
see ; and when thy e3'e discovers it, thy nerves and mem- 
bers are at command to start up and go. Now, as thou 
art a physician, and pretends to understand the human 
frame, render me a reason (as it is reason thou buildest 
upon), of this intelligence from the ear to the eye, and 
so on to thy other faculties and members.' His answer 
was, " Oh, sir, that is out of my power.' 

''Finding him now in a better state to hear than to 
talk, I went on from one thing to another, till I beat him 
as effectually out of his deism, I believe, as ever a man 
was beaten out of anything. And I thought he loved 
me as well as ever he loved any man, for he followed me 
several hundred miles, and assisted me in appointing 
meetings where there were no Friends." 



A DEE AM OF OLIYER PAXSON. 

Oliver Paxson, a valuable Elder, who resided in Sole- 
bury, Bucks Count}^, had a dream from which he derived 
instruction. He thought he was from home, and, being 
about to return, had a stream of water to pass over. On 
reaching the crossing-place, he found a large serpent, 
who told him he had always been his enemy, and now he 
was determined he should not pass there. Oliver said 



ABEL HAUGHTON. 87 

that was his way home, and he must go through; but 
the serpent still opi^osecl him, and in discouragement he 
turned awaj^ But thoughts of the distress his family 
would experience, should he not return, again strength- 
ened his resolution, and he determined to return and go 
through. He found now that the serpent had received a 
reinforcement of its kind, and the obstacles to crossing 
were more formidable than before. But the thoughts of 
home prompted him, and sayifig, "Go through I will,'' he 
made a cut with his whip at the serpents, who all slunk 
away. The conclusk)n he arrived at from this dream 
was, "Turn from duty, and fresh impediments will arise; 
resist the devil and he will flee." 

Oliver Paxson was a faithful man in every condition 
in life, and peculiarly serviceable in religious society. 
He departed in peace, Tenth month 29th, 1811, aged 76 
years. 

" He was a man who stood as a pillar in the church, 
and as a w^atchman on the walls of Zion, zealous in the 
support of the primitive principles and testimonies " of 
the Religious Society of Friends. 

ABEL HAUGHTOISr. 

(Pronounced Hooten.) 

Thomas Watson, of New England, a minister of the 
Society of Friends, who had been a soldier in the Revo- 
lutionary War, went in the night season, to the window 
of Abel Haughton, and cried out, "Abel, Abel! if the 
light that is in thee be darkness, how great is that dark- 
ness!" Many years afterwards, when Abel Haughton, 
who was a talented and highly gifted man, had long been 
an approved minister, he through unwatchfulness suf- 
fered himself to become very much interested in politics, 

4 



88 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

and united with the jS'ew Lights (as some seceders from 
the Society of Friends were called). At length, about 
the 3' ear 1814, he took a contract to make one thousand 
pairs of shoes for soldiers at that time engaged in war ; 
and soon after fell awa}^ so far as to become terribly pro- 
fane. Some time after that, he was affected with " shak- 
ing palsy •/' could not feed himself, and shook so much 
that it was very difficult for another to feed him. But 
his wife would stand by him, with one hand wiping the 
saliva, which was constantly streaming from his mouth, 
and with the other giving him food from a spoon, while 
he constantl}^ assailed her with dreadful imprecations. 

This state of things had continued three years, when 
through the power of Divine Grace, he was brought to a 
sense of his condition. He sent for the overseers of the 
meeting of which he had been a member, told them they 
did right to disown him, and appeared very penitent. 
After he had sent for them a second time, the Monthly 
Meeting at Lynn, Massachusetts, appointed a committee 
to visit him ; one member of which had previously felt a 
concern to do so. During their interview with him, he 
was very deepl}^ affected. The committee were convinced 
that he was truly penitent and humble, and made a fa- 
vorable report to the Monthly Meeting. One Friend, who 
could not unite with the report, was requested to visit 
Abel ; he did so, and at the next Monthly Meeting said, 
" If any are not satisfied, let them visit him as I did.'^ 
A. Haughton was received again into membership, and 
was so entirely changed, that his wife said she was paid 
for all she had suffered. He lived two or three years, 
but was unable to go out. 



ACCOUNT OF TWO FRIENDS IN SCOTLAND. 39 



ACCOUNT OF TWO FEIEKDS IX SCOTLAISTD. 

In the early part of the eighteenth century, a man and 
his wife, members of the Religious Society of Friends, who 
resided in some part of Scotland, having by their industry 
saved some money over and above their necessary support, 
the woman Friend said to her husband, in reference to 
this their saving : '^ We must consider how we may make 
a right use of this overplus we are favored with." They 
accordingly consulted together on the subject, concluding 
if this was not properly attended to, a blast might come 
on their future endeavors for further supplies of necessa- 
ries ; and at length concluded they could do no better 
than build a meeting-house with it, there not being one 
in the place where they resided. 

They accordingl}^ went to work ; the woman Friend 
trod the clay of which the walls were composed, w^ith her 
bare feet; a window was made north and south, but not 
of glass ; only wooden shutters to cover each of the holes 
left to admit light, and when the wind was on the north 
side of the house, the south shutter was to be opened, and 
so again reversed. This work was completed by tlieir own 
labor and their savings, which amounted only to the sum 
of five pounds, as they had but little more to purchase 
than doors, window-frames, rafters, and shutters, with 
boards for seats, the supporters of which w^ere made, like 
the w^alls of the building, with mud. 

Two women Friends travelling in the work of the min- 
istry, being that way, had a meeting in this meeting- 
house ; report sa^^s, one of the most favored to them they 
remembered to have ever had. 

They returned home with the proprietors of this humble 
place of worship, and gave the following report of their 



40 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

entertainment ; on taking their seats, a wooden bowl of 
crowdy, which is oat-meal boiled in water with vegetables, 
served up as soup, was given to each of them. 

After the meal was over, the man entertained his guests 
with the following narrative, saying: "He had a good 
fortune with his wife, for he had been taking out of it 
ever since they had been together, and yet he could not 
perceive it was any ways lessened. '^ This good fortune 
which he had with his wife, he informed them, consisted 
of six shillings and eight pence, with which he bought 
the brock, as he called it, meaning the pot in which the 
crowdy had been boiled, they had been partaking of. 



WILLIAM TUCHOLD. 

(Pronounced Touclihold.) 

William Tuchold resided in Barmen, near Elberfeld, on 
the river Wupper, Prussia. He was a shoemaker, and 
had from eleven to thirteen men working for him. In 
1830 he became convinced of the principles of Friends, 
and changed his dress, putting on a plain coat and hat, 
in consequence of which his customers immediately left 
him ; even those who had shoes in his shop to be mended 
took them away, so that he was obliged to discharge his 
men, and in the course of a week had no work to do. His 
wife and her family, who were Presbyterians, were very 
much opposed to him, calling Friends anti-Christians. 
And thinking William would not have enough to support 
his family, his wife's father and her brother came to take 
her home with them. They packed up all the goods she 
had brought there, leaving only a table and settee. When 
all were in the wagon, they told her to bring the children 
and come with them. William was seated on the settee, 



WILLIAM TUCHOLD. 41 

tiying to compose his mind and look to his Maken His 
wife took the children, but looked back from the door 
and said, " William, is it possible to see me and the children 
go away ?'' He answered, " Thou know'st I love thee, and 
that I suffer these things for the love of my Saviour. If 
thou lovest father and mother more than me, thou wilt 
have to go with them, for I love Christ more than thee 
and my children. ' He that loveth father or mother more 
than me, is not worthy of me, and he that loveth son or 
daughter more than me, is not w^orthy of me.' " She imme- 
diately returned, fell on his neck, and said, nothing but 
death should separate them ; she was willing to suffer all 
things with him for Truth's sake. She then told her 
father she could not go, he might take all the goods, she 
could not leave William, but would stay with him to live 
or die. Her father and brother, though ver}^ much per- 
plexed by the change, drove off with the goods. But the 
horses would not pull together, and the goods fell off. 
Feeling much distressed, they finally concluded to turn 
back; and when they had done so, the horses worked 
well, and the goods staid on until they again arrived at 
the house, where they unloaded them all. WilUam said 
he rejoiced in his heart that he had been enabled to give 
up all, wife and children, for Truth's sake, and it was 
marvellous in his eyes, that after all was given up, the 
Master had given all back. His wife's family became 
reconciled to him. He commenced another business, and 
prospered in it. All in that place who became convinced 
of Friends' principles, had to suffer more for plainness of 
dress and address than any other of their testimonies. 



42 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE, 



DOCTOR PAYSOK. 

Dr. Payson used the following illustration in familiar 
conversation with a friend : " God deals somewhat with 
us as we do with our children. When I am in my study 
engaged in writing or meditation, if I hear one of my 
children cry, I do not go to it immediately. The occa- 
sion of its tears may be a mere momentary trouble, capable 
of being removed by others, or from which it may be 
diverted by some toys. But if its cries continue, and I 
find that nothing but my presence will pacify it, I leave 
everything and go to it. So when the children of God 
begin to cry for his presence, he does not answer them 
immediately, but waits to see whether the cry is repeated, 
and if he finds that his child will be satisfied with nothing 
but his Father's presence, this blessing will not be long 
withheld." 

During the last illness of Dr. Payson, a friend coming 
into his room, remarked familiarly, " Well, I am sorry to 
see yoQ lying here on your back." " Do you not know 
what God puts us on our backs for?" said Dr. Payson 
smilingl}^ '' No," was the answer. " In order that we 
may look upward." 

A friend said to him, " I am not come to condole, but 
to rejoice with you, for it seems to me that this is no time 
for mourning." " Well I am glad to hear that," was the 
reply, "for it is not often that I am addressed in such a 
way. The fact is, I never had less need of condolence, 
and yet everybody persists in offering it ; whereas, when 
I was prosperous and well, and a successful preacher, and 
really needed condolence, they flattered and congratu- 
lated me." 

Toward the close of his life. Dr. Paj^^son observed that 



WILLIAM CROTCH. 43 

Christians might avoid much trouble and inconvenience, 
if they would only believe what they profess, that God 
is able to make them supremely happy in himself, indepen- 
dently of all circumstances. '' The}^ imagine," he writes, 
"that if such a dear friend were to die, or such and such 
blessings be removed, they should be miserable, whereas 
God can make them a thousand times happier without 
them. To mention my own case : God has been depriv- 
ing me of one mercy after another; but as one was 
removed, he has come in and filled up its place. Now 
when I am a cripple and not able to move, I am happier 
than ever I was in my life before, or ever expect to be ; 
and if I had believed this twenty years ago, I might have 
been spared much anxiet}". If God had told me some 
time ago that he was about to make me as happy as I 
could be in this world, and then had told me that he 
should begin by crippling me in all my limbs, and remov- 
ing me from my usual sources of enjoyment, I should 
have thought it a very strange mode of accomplishing his 
purpose. And yet, how is his wisdom manifest, even in 
this life." 

WILLIAM CEOTCII. 

In the year 1795, William Crotch, of Needham, iu 
Suffolk, being on a religious visit to Friends, and at Mar- 
garet Rayner's house, Sunny Side, Rosendale, Lancashire, 
in conversation gave the following account of his con- 
vincement and the early part of his life. '' I was brought 
up waiting-boy at a great inn in Norwich, the mistress 
thereof being my cousin, though I was not allowed to 
call her so ; and about the eleventh year of my age, a 
brother of mine, ten 3^ears older than myself, coming to our 
house, mentioned his having lately been at a Quaker 



44 GLEANINaS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

meeting, and related several particulars by way of ridi- 
cule to make sport among the servants. After hearing 
him, I said, 'Well, I will certainly go to the Quaker meet- 
ing next Sunda}^,' it being my turn to have liberty that 
day. When the day came I set out, but knew not which 
way to go, and was ashamed to ask any one ; however, I 
ventured at last, and was told there was a Quaker's 
funeral going just there, so I followed ; but when I came 
to the meeting-house, I felt such an awe upon my mind, 
and was seized with such trembling, that I dared not 
enter; and when all were seated, I looked in, and the 
Friends seemed to my view as if sitting in paradise; but 
I could not have had courage to have entered at all, had 
not the doorkeeper come and taken me by the hand, and 
seated me beside him. When I returned, I told my 
brother I had been at Quaker meeting, and never had 
such feelings, nor was so comforted in my mind in any 
other place of worship in my life. ' Well,' said he lightly, 
'it's likely enough the bo}^ will be a Quaker.' 

" From this time I continued to attend whenever I had 
liberty, till it came to the knowledge of my mistress ; who 
was exceedingly disturbed at it, and made me promise 
to go to Peter's Church, or I should not go out at all; so 
I accordingly went just within the door, and then ran 
with all speed to the meeting, where I was abundantly 
favored, and confirmed in my resolution to persevere. 

" After a while, however, my mistress bethought her to 
examine me what the text was, and of this I could give 
no account, and durst not tell a lie, so I was put to the 
test, and found out; and much pains were taken both by 
herself and men who frequented the house, whom she 
employed to induce me by any means to leave off going 
to the Quakers, but I never could be brought to that. 

"My father and mother also came and reasoned with 



WILLIAM CROTCH. 45 

me much ; my father being a sober man, used what argu- 
ments he could to induce me, but when he saw it was in 
vain, he threatened to leave m^e nothing, though he had 
some hundreds to dispose of; however, he lived to change 
his mind, and he left me the largest share, made me ex- 
ecutor to his will, and said, 'William, I wish they were 
all Quakers.' 

" My mistress took a pleasure in seeing me smart, and 
I loved to be fine, but now it grew uneasy to me, and 
when I saw any women Friends in the street, or their 
children, I used to follow and admire them. I now 
wished much to live among Friends, so found out a 
shoemaker of that profession, and bespoke a pair of 
shoes, but I had not courage to speak upon the subject, 
till I went for them ; when, being a sixpence short, he 
said, ' I think I dare trust thee for the sixpence, thou 
looks a good honest lad.' So I took courage, and asked 
him if he could help me to a place among Friends. He 
said he thought he remembered seeing me at their meet- 
ings, and asked me if I loved to go to meetings ? I an- 
swered, ' Yes, I do ; ' so he promised to mention me to 
some Friends, and soon after, three of them came to the 
inn. I rejoiced to see them, and they were shown into a 
room. . . . They asked for my mistress, and upon talking 
a little with her concerning me, I heard her sa}^, ' Indeed I 
have loved the bo3^ as my own child, and been exceedingly 
grieved and distressed at his coming amongst you ; but 
now the time is come, that he is more fit for 3^ou than 
us.' And I was soon after received, at the age of thir- 
teen. I vv^as some time footman to John Gurney, and 
afterwards apprenticed myself to a shoemaker, where I 
found that all Quakers were not alike, for I had a hard 
place, but the time got over. I remember one First day, 
when Rachel Wilson was to be at our meeting, I invited 



46 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

William Crane, a neighboring boy with whom I was in- 
timate, and whom I knew to be a solid, thoughtful youth, 
to go with me ; he did so, and we sat together ; at which 
time he was so tendered and broken into tears, that I 
believe he was effectually reached ; and he abode with it, 
and is now an eminent minister and dear friend of mine 
in Norwich. 

" My cousin, with whom I lived, is still living, and 
rejoices to see me. 

" When people are faithful to what is manifested to 
them to be right, way is made for them through what- 
ever difficulties they are tried with.'' 



THE DUKE OF WELLI:N^GT0K 

" Is not gaining a great victory the most glorious thing 
in* the world?'' asked a lady, of the Duke of Wellington, 
at the time of the occupation of Paris by the allies. 
The Duke replied, '' It is the greatest of all calamities 
except a defeat." 



ANECDOTE OF A BISHOP OF LONDON. 

It is related of a Bishop of London, that being in 
want of some article connected with house furniture, he 
sent to the house of a member of the Society of Friends, 
in the city, for patterns of the article he wanted. When 
the Bishop's message reached the shop, the proprietor 
w^as absent, but a young and consistent Friend in his 
employ, went to the palace with the desired patterns, 
and after having shown them to the Bishop, was desired 



WILLIAM BLAKEY. 47 

to leave them until next morning, when, after the ap- 
proval of a pattern, a message should be forwarded to 
the house for a party to return and take the order. 

When the young man reached the warehouse, he 
found his employer there, who queried of him where he 
had been, and on being informed, remarked very sharply 
that he supposed he should lose the order, from the 
young man's stiffness^ and requested to be informed 
when the Bishop's messenger should arrive. 

The following morning the Bishop sent down according 
to promise, and the Friend hastened to attend to the 
business. He was introduced to the Bishop, to whom 
he made a profound bow, and then accosted him in a 
manner quite inconsistent with his profession. 

The Bishop, perceiving this, asked if he was the per- 
son who called upon him yesterday ? To which the 
Friend replied. No ; he had left the j^oung man at home, 
as he preferred calling personally. The Bishop told him 
that he should prefer seeing the person who had pre- 
viously called upon him, and added to the following 
effect : " Let me give you a few words of advice : never 
be ashamed of consistently carrying out your profession, 
for however much others may differ from you in religious 
opinion, they alwa3^s admire the conduct of those who 
consistently carry out the views which thej^ profess to 
hold." 



WILLIAM BLAKEY. 

William Blakey, a minister of the Gospel in the So- 
ciety of Friends, resided at Middletown, Bucks County, 
Pennsylvania. During the war of the American Revo- 
lution, he, with many of his fellow-professors, suffered 



48 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

from the foraging parties of the American army. At 
one time a party, headed by an officer, came to William's 
farm, and appeared disposed to strip him of all his sub- 
stance which they could possibly take off. The officer 
ordered his men to seize upon the horses and wagons, 
and to load up the grain and other produce. Whilst the 
men were doing his bidding, he himself was abusing 
William, calling him a rebel, and threatening to take his 
life. His aim seemed to be to irritate William, so that 
he should do or say something which might furnish a 
pretext for personal violence towards him. 

But William remained silent, and was perfectly calm 
and collected ; his thoughts were turned inward towards 
his Divine Master, for strength and support, and he dis- 
played no hard feelings towards those who were thus 
robbing him of his substance. The officer soon became 
silent ; he was evidently agitated and distressed. The 
quiet humility of his victim was a more powerful appeal 
to him than the most eloquent intercession would have 
proved. 

After a time he turned to William, and with a faltering 
voice, asked him if he ever prayed. William replied, he 
hoped he had at times been favored to have access to the 
Throne of Grace, and that at this time of trial, he had 
been endeavoring to feel after the spirit of supplication. 
The officer then asked if he ever prayed for any one but 
himself, and on William answering in the affirmative, 
added, " I wish then you would pray for me, for I would 
not endure the wretchedness I now feel for all 3"0u are 
worth.'' The soldiers had by this time secured the grain 
and loaded it into the wagons ; but the officer was so 
completely overcome by the meek. Christian spirit of 
him they had been spoiling of his goods, that he ordered 
all to be restored. 



MExMOIRS OF WILLIAM BRAMWELL. 49 



A MAREIAGE CEETIFICATE. 

Words used by Friends in the marriage ceremony, 
(and also in the certificates) varied much previous to the 
establishment of a form by Discipline (probably in 1721). 
A certificate recorded in Yorkshire, is as follows : 

" George Musgrave loved Ann Brock, and she became 
his wife, publicly in the congregation, upon the twentieth 
day of the Tenth month, in the year 1663." 

[Signed by seventeen witnesses.] 



EXTEACT EEOM MEMOIES OF WILLIAM 
BEAMWELL. 

(Taken from the " Imperial Magazine " for Twelfth month, 1819.) 

The substance of a remarkable dream, related by the 
late R. Bawpers, of Danvers, who committed it to writ- 
ing from the lips of the person who had the dream, on 
the evening of Fifth month 30th, 1813. 

''A gospel minister of Evangelical principles, whose 
name, from the circumstances that occurred, it will be 
necessary to conceal, being much fatigued at the con- 
clusion of the afternoon service, retired to his apart- 
ment, in order to take a little rest. He had not long re- 
clined upon his couch, before he fell asleep, and began 
to dream. 

"He dreamed, that on walkino^ into his sjarden he en- 
tered a bower that had been erected in it, where he sat 
down to read and meditate. While thus employed, he 
thought he heard some person enter the garden, and 
leaving his labors, he immediately hastened towards the 
spot whence the sound seemed to come, in order to dis- 



50 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

cover who it was that had entered. He had not pro- 
ceeded far before he discovered a particular friend of 
his, a gospel minister of considerable talents, who had 
rendered himself very popular by his zealous and un- 
wearied exertions in the cause of Christ. On approach- 
ing his friend he was surprised to find that his coun- 
tenance was covered with gloom, which it had not been 
accustomed to wear, and that it strongly indicated a 
violent agitation of mind, apparently arising from con- 
scious remorse. After the usual salutation had passed, 
his friend asked the relator the time of day, to which he 
replied, 'Twenty-five minutes after four o'clock.' On 
hearing this, his friend said, ' It is only one hour since 
I died, and now I am damned!' 'Damned! for what?' 
inquired the dreaming minister. 'It is not,' said he, 
' because I have not preached the gospel, neither is it 
because I have not been rendered useful, for I have now 
many seals to my ministry, who can bear testimony to 
the truth as it is in Jesus, which they have received from 
my lips ; but it is because I have been accumulating to 
myself the applause of men, more than the honor which 
Cometh from above ; and wisely I have my reward.' 
Having uttered these expressions, he hastily disappeared, 
and was seen no more. 

" The minister awakened shortly afterwards, with this 
dream deeply impressed upon his mind, and proceeded, 
overwhelmed with serious reflection, toward his chapel, 
in order to conduct the evening service. On his way 
thither, he was asked if he had heard of the great loss 
the Church had sustained by the death of that able min- 
ister. He replied 'No.' But being much affected with 
this singular intelligence, he inquired on what day his 
death took place. To this his friend replied, ' This af- 
ternoon, at twenty-five minutes after three o'clock.' " . . 



MEMOIR OF THOMAS SCATTERGOOD. 51 



EXTRACT FROM "MEMOIRS OF THOMAS 
SCATTERGOOD." 

At our last Quarterly Meeting, our beloved friend 
Thomas Scattergood, in the course of his public testi- 
mony, in moving language, warned the youth present to 
beware of wanton behavior, dancing, frolicking, &c., 
stating that he had known several instances of divine 
displeasure being manifested to individuals, who had at- 
tended such meetings as these, and directly afterwards 
had gone to horse-races, or other sinful pastime. One 
instance he mentioned, of a young man who, on his way 
home from a favored meeting, falling in company with 
persons who were collected for a horse-race, they urged 
him to ride one of the horses ; he at first refused, but be- 
ing pressed by some of them, at length yielded ; and in 
the race was thrown from the horse, which occasioned 
his death. He said it appeared to be his business to warn 
the youth present to beware of such conduct, lest some 
of them might be made like examples. "I do not say,'' 
said he, ''it will be the case, but I find it my place to 
proclaim a solemn warning." On third-day our meeting 
ended. 

Twenty-seven persons, chiefly young people, embarked 
on board a boat, bound for Sandy Hook ; but before they 
set oflT, it was observed that several of them were dis- 
couraged, and ready to give it up ; and on their way it 
was remarked, how dreadful it would be, if any unfavor- 
able accident should happen after having been at meeting, 
and hearing the advice then given. On fourth-day they 
went to view a monument erected over a person of dis- 
tinction, who, with twelve others, perished there not long 
before. On fifth-day they walked to the light-house, and 



52 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

on their return, went on a narrow reef of sand, which is 
bare at low water, as also the way to it ; on this they 
spent some time in walking, &c. At length, observing 
the tide to run fast, they were alarmed, and concluded to 
return. But, alas ! the sea had hidden their path, and 
covered all their waymarks ! However, they made the 
attempt, and' as they were pressing on, eleven of them 
suddenly stepped into the deep, were overwhelmed, as in 
a moment, and seven of them perished. The others, 
with the assistance of some of the compan}^ who could 
swim, got to the shore, though almost spent. Four of 
the bodies were found, and brought up here (Rah way) 
on sixth-day. 

The next day was appointed for their interment, and 
notice being given, a large concourse of people attended, 
after which a meeting was held, wherein our beloved 
friend Thomas Scattergood was enabled to preach the 
gospel ; pertinently to exhort all present to profit by 
the present calamity, and feelingly to impart a portion 
of consolation to those who drank largely of sorrow's 
streams. 

He had not felt easy to return home after our Quarterly 
Meeting ended ; but waiting in great exercise of mind, 
was not able to discover the cause of his being thus de- 
tained. On sixth-day morning, he retired into a private 
room, and sitting awhile under the like pressure of exer- 
cise, a messenger stepped in with the foregoing sorrowful 
tidings. Then he could account for the trying dispensa- 
tion he had passed through, which he related in his dis- 
course to the crowded audience, observing that it might 
be said of him, as of Nehemiah, " Why art thou sad, see- 
ing thou art not sick ?" " I was not sick," said he, ''but 
felt such oppression of exercise, that I thought of taking 
my bed." 



TOTAL ABSTINENCE. 53 

[The " four bodies " mentioned above, were those of 
3^oung women. Thomas Scattergood says, '' We walked 
down to the landing, and there saw them lying on straw, 
on the deck, side by side, and a very serious sight it 
was. 

" 22d. Went to the burial, which was a solemn scene ; 
such a grave I never saw before — wide enough to lay the 
bodies of these poor young women side by side, who, but 
a few days before, were mostly in full health and strength, 
and most or all of them at meeting. Solemn it was to 
see the coffins, one by one, brought into the graveyard."] 
This was in the Eighth month, 1789. 



''TOTAL ABSTI]S'E]SrCE." 

A mother, on the green hills of Vermont, stood at her 
garden gate, holding by her right hand a son of sixteen 
years, mad with love of the sea. '^ Edward," said she, 
'' they tell me that the great temptation of the seaman's 
life is drink ; promise me, before you quit 3'our mother's 
hand, that you never will drink." Said he — for he told 
me the story — ''I gave her the promise ; I went the broad 
globe over — Calcutta, the Mediterranean, San Francisco, 
the Cape of Good Hope, and for forty years, whenever I 
saw a glass filled, with sparkling liquor, my mother's form, 
by the garden gate on the hillside of Vermont, rose up 
before me, and to-day, at sixty, my lips are innocent of 
the taste of liquor." Was not that sweet evidence of the 
power of a single word ? And 3^et it was but half; for, 
said he, " Yesterday there came into my counting-room a 
3^oung man of forty, and asked me, 'Do you know me ?' 
' No,' said I. ' I was brought once,' said he, ' drunk into 
your presence on shipboard ; 3'ou were a passenger ; the 

5 



54 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

captain kicked me aside ; you took me into your berth, 
kept me there till I had slept off the intoxication, and 
then you asked me if I had a mother. I said, never that 
I knew of; I never had heard a mother's voice. You told 
me of 3^ours at the garden gate, and to-day, twenty years 
later, I am master of one of the finest packets in New 
York, and I came to ask you to come and see me.' " 



SAMUEL rOTHEKGILL, 

At a Quarterly Meeting in the North of England, re- 
lated the following : 

He had called to visit an Elder of the Society, on his 
death-bed, and found him in great agonj' and anguish of 
spirit. He was a man who bore a good character among 
men, and ^i the days of his youth had been zealous in the 
discharge of the duties devolving on those who are 
rightly called to the station he held in the Church. As he 
grew older the ardor of his devotedness declined, yet as 
he retained the form of Godliness, his estimation, in the 
judgment of his fellow-creatures, was not materially di- 
minished. But now, on his death-bed, the good opinion 
of others could not satisfy his soul. He told Samuel, 
that in the days of his youth, he had a vision, in which 
was represented a well-inclosed field of green pasture, 
well watered, and abounding in flocks of sheep. They 
were in an excellent condition, and remarkable for the 
whiteness of their fleecy coverings. This fold he was to 
watch over, he was to care for the flock, see after the 
hedge, and keep the fountain-head of the water clean. 
And now, in his old age, he had the vision renewed. He 
again beheld the fold committed to his care ; but oh ! the 
awful change! The hedge was broken down, the pasture 



SAMUEL FOTHERGILL. 55 

was burnt up, the sheep and lambs which remained in the 
inclosure, were poor, weak, and sickly, and a venomous 
serpent lay in the fountain-head, and poisoned the whole 
waters. While he considered the change, he heard a 
voice saying, " All this will I require at th}^ hands. '^ 
After narrating this, he told Samuel, that in looking to 
the future, he could see nothing but gloom and darkness 

The following circumstance was related by Samuel 
Fothergill, on his return to England, after his visit to 
America : 

A Friend, at whose house he lodged when passing 
through the wilderness, was a widow, and lived with her 
son, who cultivated a small piece of land, which furnished 
them a frugal subsistence. Their nearest neighbor, who 
lived a few miles distant through the forest, came early 
one afternoon to request she would visit his wife, who 
was taken very ill ; and stay with her while he went for 
medical advice. With this she complied, and putting up 
in a basket a few needful things for the sick woman, she 
told her son she did not expect to return before the next 
morning, and set out and reached the place in safet}'. 
With suitable remedies, the invalid soon recovered, and 
her husband returning, the widow concluded to go home 
that evening, hoping, as it was a fine moonlight night, 
that she might pass the forest without danger. But on 
crossing an open glade, she saw a flock of wolves drink- 
ing at a pool of water at some distance, which made her 
sensible of her great rashness, thinking that unless she 
could pass unobserved, her destruction was inevitable, as 
no human help was at hand, for though her home was in 
sight, she believed her son was in bed, and the cottage 
fast. In this strait, she lifted up her heart to God in 
earnest praj^er, that he who had often strengthened and 
consoled her in many troubles, would now be pleased to 



56 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

interpose for her help, and not permit her to be devoured 
by these savage creatures. Her mind became composed, 
and she ran quickly forward ; on crossing a fence, she 
looked back and perceived that one of the wolves had 
discovered her ; he uttered a shrill cry, and immediately 
the whole pack was in pursuit. 

Meanwhile, her son had retired to rest, but could not 
sleep ; a strange and unusual anxiety came over his mind, 
w^hich continually increased ; he arose and made a large 
fire of wood, which blazed brightl}^, and he sat down by 
it. In a short time he thought he heard his mother's 
voice calling to him, and opening the door, he perceived 
her, followed by several wolves; one was so near as 
almost to touch her shoulder with his paw. The sudden 
light dazzled and checked them, and for a moment they 
fell back, which gave her time to rush into the house and 
close the door, when she, with her son, both greatly 
affected by this deliverance, united in returning thanks 
for the merciful interposition which had so remarkably 
preserved her life. 



DEOWSIXESS. 

(Extracted from the " Life of Thomas Story.") 

The week-day Meeting at Painswick, being on the 
18th, I went thither. It was small and heavy in the be- 
ginning, but ended fresh and lively. The hindrance was 
drowsiness, a great evil, hindering the living worship of 
the living God, and in which hidden temptation, Satan 
has greatly prevailed in some places, to the dishonor of 
God and hurt of many souls. For if Satan can transform 
himself into an angel of light, and in that way deceive 
the simple, and such as know not the true light, how 



JOHN BUNYAN. 57' 

much more may he transform himself into the image of 
death and darkness, in a dead and drowsy soul; through 
which as a veil he puts on in a meeting, he also loads and 
grieves the upright and living; and where this prevails 
there can be no worship of God, but rather a yielding and 
bowing to the enemy, whereby all worship of God is 
much more eflfectually suppressed, than by all the powers 
of the earth in times of their open opposition and perse- 
cution. 



JOHK BUNYAK. 

It being well known to some of his persecutors in Lon- 
don, that Bunyan was often out of prison, they sent an 
officer to talk with the jailer on the subject, and in order 
to find him out, he was to get there in the middle of the 
night. Bunyan was at home with his family, but so rest- 
less he could not sleep ; he acquainted his wife, that 
though the jailer had given him liberty to stay till the 
morning, he felt so uneasy, he must immediately return. 
He did so, and the jailer blamed him for coming in at so 
unseasonable an hour. Early in the morning the mes- 
senger came, and interrogating the jailer, said, "Are all 
the prisoners safe?'' ''Yes." "Is John Bunyan safe?'' 
"Yes." "Let me see him." He was called, appeared, 
and all was well. After the messenger was gone, the 
jailer, addressing Bun3^an, said, "Well you may go out 
again just when you think proper, for you know when to 
return better than I can tell you." 



58 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 



MATTHEW WAREE:N^. 

Matthew Warren, a pious man, was, during the reign 
of Charles II and James II, an object of great hatred to 
the ruling powers, because of his religious principles. 
His person was often sought for by wicked men, with the 
intent, if possible, to bring him to an ignominious death. 
At one time he was very remarkably and providentially 
preserved. His wife had a strong impression on her mind, 
that unless he left the house in which he at that time 
found shelter, before a particular hour, he would be taken 
prisoner. Under this impression, she sent a messenger 
to him with a letter, stating her desire that he would be 
at his own house at the hour specified, or else he might 
never see her more. Supposing her ill, he immediately 
took leave of his friend, and set out homewards. From 
the summit of the first ascent, he looked back towards the 
house he had left, and found it surrounded by the persons 
who were seeking his life. 



A DEEAM. 

(From the Journal of Thomas Chalkley.) 

After visiting Friends in America, " in the love of the 
gospel," Thomas Chalkley sailed, in the winter of 1698-9, 
on his return to England. Elizabeth Webb and Eliza- 
beth Lloyd went in the same vessel. After they had been 
several weeks at sea, Thomas Chalkley wrote in his jour- 
nal, as follows, viz. : 

" We had several good meetings, wherein we gave 
glory to God, our Saviour ; and forever let it ascend to 
Him over all, saith my soul ! Contrary winds are com- 



- A DREAM. 59 

monly tedious at sea, but especially to those that know 
not where to stay their minds ; but there being several 
Friends of us on board, we had oftentimes good meetings ; 
and if any of our ship's company came to meeting, they 
always were sober, and sometimes tender ; and truly 
God's love was extended towards them. When it was 
not our meeting days, we spent not our time idly, but for 
the most part in reading the Hol}^ Scriptures, writing, &c., 
in which we were at seasons greatly refreshed, strength- 
ened, and comforted. Oh ! my soul ! glorifj^ God thy 
Maker, and Christ thy Saviour forever, in the sense of 
his goodness and mercy, both by sea and land, by night 
and by day ! After we had been almost seven weeks at 
sea, we thought that we were near the land ; but we 
sounded several days, and found no bottom, although we 
let out abundance of line, I think above three hundred 
yards. 

About this time our doctor dreamed a dream, which he 
related to me, to this effect. He said, '' he dreamed that 
he went on shore at a great and spacious town, the build- 
ings whereof were high and the streets broad ; and as he 
went up the street he saw a large sign, on which was 
written in great golden letters, shame. At the door of 
the house to which the sign belonged, stood a woman 
with a can in her hand, who said to him, ' Doctor, will you 
drink ?' He replied, 'With all my heart, for I have not 
drank anything but water a great while ' (our wine and 
cider being all spent, having had a long passage), and he 
drank a heart}^ draught, which he said made him merry. 
He went up the street, reeling to and fro, when a grim 
fellow coming behind him, clapped him on the shoulder, 
and told him that he arrested him in the name of the gov- 
ernor of the place. He asked him for what ; and said, 
'What have I done?' He answered, 'For stealing the 



60 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY- FIVE. 

woman's can.' The can he had indeed, and so he was had 
before the governor, which was a mighty black dog, the 
biggest and grimmest that ever he saw in his life ; and 
witness was brought in against him by an old companion 
of his, and he was found guilty, and his sentence was to 
go to prison, and there lie forever." He told me this 
dream so punctually, and with such an emphasis, that it 
affected me with serious sadness, and caused my heart to 
move within me ; for to me the dream seemed true, and 
the interpretation sure. I then told him he was an in- 
genious man, and might clearly see the interpretation of 
that dream, which exactly answered to his state and con- 
dition ; which I thus interpreted to him : '' This great 
and spacious place, where the buildings were high, and 
the streets broad, is thy great and high profession. The 
sign, on which was written i^hame^ which thou sawest, and 
the w^oman at the door, with the can in her hand, truly 
represent that great, crjdng, and shameful sin of drunk- 
enness, which thou knowest to be thy great weakness, 
which the woman with the can did truly represent to thee. 
The grim fellow who arrested thee in the devil's terri- 
tories, is death, who will assuredly arrest all mortals ; the 
governor whom thou sawest, representing a great black 
dog, is certainly the devil, who, after his servants have 
served him to the full, will torment them eternally in 
hell." So he got up, as it were in haste, and said, ''God 
forbid ! it is nothing but a dream." But I told him it 
was a very significant one, and a warning to him from the 
Almighty, who sometimes speaks to men by dreams. 

In seven weeks after we left sight of the land of Amer- 
ica, we saw the Scilly Islands, and next day the land of 
England, which was a comfortable sight to us ; in that 
God Almighty had preserved us hitherto, and that we 
were so far on our way. We drove about the Channel's 



A DREAM. 61 

mouth for several days for want of wind ; after which 
the wind came up, and we got as far up the Channel as 
Lime Bay, and then an easterly wind blew fresh for sev- 
eral days, and we turned to windward, but rather lost 
than got on our wa}^, which was tiresome and tedious 
to us. 

About this time, being some days after the Doctor's 
dream, a grievous accident happened to us. Meeting 
with a Dutch vessel in Lime Ba}^, a little above the Start, 
we hailed her, and she us. They said they came from 
Lisbon and were bound for Holland. She was loaded 
with wine, brand}' , fruit, and such-like commodities, and 
we having but little water to drink, by reason our pas- 
sage was longer than we expected, we sent our boat on 
board, in order to buy a little wine to drink with our 
water. Our Doctor, and a merchant who was a passen- 
ger, and one sailor, went on board, where they staid 
until some of them were overcome with wine, although 
they were desired to beware thereof. When they came 
back, a rope was handed to them, but the}^ being filled 
with wine to excess, were not capable of using it dex- 
terously, insomuch that they overset the boat, and she 
turned bottom upwards, having the Doctor under her. 
The merchant caught hold of a rope called the main 
sheet, whereb}^ his life was saved. The sailor not get- 
ting so much drink as the other two, got nimbly on the 
bottom of the boat, and floated on the water till our 
other boat was hoisted out, which was done with great 
speed, and we took him in ; but the Doctor was drowned 
before the boat came. The seaman who sat on the boat 
saw him sink but could not help him. This was the 
greatest exercise that we met with in all our voj^age, and 
the more so, because the Doctor was of an evil life and 



62 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

conversation, much given to excess in drinking. When 
he got on board the aforesaid ship, the master sent for a 
can of wine, and said, '^Doctor, will you drink?" He 
replied '' Yes, with all m}^ heart, for I have drank no 
wine for a great while ;" upon which he drank a hearty 
draught, that made him merry, as he said in his dream ; 
and notwithstanding the admonition which was so clearly 
manifested to him but three days before, and the many 
promises he had made to Almight}^ God, some of which 
I was a w^itness of when strong convictions were upon 
him, yet now he was unhappily overcome, and in drink 
when he was drowned. This is, I think, a lively repre- 
sentation of the tender mercy and just judgment of the 
Almighty to poor mortals, and I thought it worthy to be 
recorded for posteritj^, as a warning to all great lovers 
of wine and strong liquors. This exercise was so great 
to me that I could not for several days get over it, and 
one day while I was musing in my mind on these things 
relating to the Doctor, it was opened to me that God and 
his servants were clear, and his blood was on his own 
head, for he had been faithfully warned of his evil ways. 
We were obliged by contrary winds to put into Ply- 
mouth Harbor, and from Pl3^mouth I went by coach to 
London, where I was gladly received by my relations 
and friends. I got to the Yearly Meeting of Friends in 
London, in the year 1699, which was large, and was at 
divers public meetings for the worship of Almighty God. 
I may truly say the Hol}^ Ghost was amongst us, blessed 
be God, our Saviour, for evermore. 

Note. — Thomas Chalkley was at this time in the 24th year of 
his age. 



SILENT REBUKE. 63 



sile:n't eebuke. 



About the year 1T81, when Friends in Yirginia ' were 
endeavoring to withdraw their members from the practice 
of holding slaves, C. Moreman was living not far from 
Cedar Creek. He owned a farm and held a number of 
slaves. It appears he was circumstanced as were many 
other slaveholders, just able to live, without increasing 
his estate. The Yearly Meeting of Yirginia at that time 
appointed a committee to visit all the members within the 
limits of that meeting who were in the possession of slaves. 
C. Moreman was ver}^ indignant at what he considered 
an impertinent interference with private property, and 
as he could only make a living with his slaves to assist 
him, it seemed probable he could not support himself 
without them. During five or six weeks which elapsed 
after the appointment, his mind was agitated by a host 
of angry passions. Sometimes he thought, if Friends 
should come to his house, he would turn them out of 
doors, or if they came when he was out, he would stay 
out, and not afford them an opportunity of speaking with 
him. 

At length he was informed the committee were at his 
house, and notwithstanding his previous resolutions, he 
did not feel quite stubborn enough to carry them out. 
On meeting the Friends, they accosted him in a very 
friendly manner, and informed him that as they were 
visiting their friends, they had taken the liberty of call- 
ing upon him, and if he would be so kind as to give 
them and their horses something to eat, it would be grate- 
fully accepted. This amicable commencement of an un- 
welcome visit had considerable effect towards soften- 
ing C. Moreman's feelings, and his Yirginia hospitality 



64 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

could not refuse their request. Therefore the horses 
were fed, and a dinner prepared for themselves. After 
the repast was over, the committee and their irritable 
host sat down together in silence, the latter being ready 
to fire the moment the battle should begin. 

After silence had continued for a time, one of the com- 
mittee whispered to another, till the whisper had gone 
round, when one of them observed that they had been 
kindly entertained, and if they had their horses they 
would ride. Their horses being brought, the Friends 
took an affectionate leave of their host, and, without 
saying a word about his slaves, left him to his own re- 
flections. This mode of treating the case was probably 
a more severe rebuke than could have been administered 
by words. C. Moreman began to reflect upon the vile- 
ness of his own mind, which had been for several weeks 
working like a troubled sea, and throwing up mire and 
dirt to cast upon a number of inoflfensive Friends, who 
evidently had nothing in their hearts but love towards 
him, and who had said nothing to disturb the posses- 
sion of his slaves. 

These reflections were well calculated to suggest the 
suspicion, that slave-holding was not quite so just a prac- 
tice as he had imagined, and that very possibly those 
who were striving, in the spirit of love, to withdraw their 
friends from it, might be much nearer the Kingdom than 
those who were inclined to enlist their vilest passions in 
its defence. While his mind was under the uneasy feel- 
ings which these circumstances excited, he dreamed one 
night that he was on the side of a dreadful precipice, and 
laboring to attain the summit, but when he reached the 
top, he found a little black boy, one of his slaves, was 
there and pushed him down again. He then scrambled 
along to another point of the summit, but still the little 



CLARKE STEVENS. 65 

slave, running along the ridge, was there before him and 
pushed him back. When he awoke, he found himself 
wet with sweat, as if he had been at work in a harvest 
field. This dream, in conjunction with his previous re- 
flections, so wrought upon him, that he concluded to 
emancipate all the slaves he had, and carried this con- 
clusion into effect. 

Being a man of considerable mechanical ingenuity, he 
made a kind of tub mill, for which the situation of the 
country created a demand, perhaps to grind Indian corn 
into hominy. As land was cheap and mechanical skill 
dear, he soon saved money enough to purchase another 
farm ; and when the countr}' was sufficiently furnished 
with tub mills, he took up another mechanical employ- 
ment, and was soon able to purchase a third farm. He 
then felt himself an independent man ; having three farms 
and but two children ; and gave it as his opinion that if 
he had retained his slaves, he would never have possessed 
more than one farm. 

He had also the consolation of believing he was no 
longer in danger of being tumbled down the precipice, 
and having his neck broken, by the hands of a little 
slave. 

CLAEKE STEYE:^[S. 

Clarke Stevens was an approved minister in the So- 
ciety of Friends, residing at Montpelier, within the 
limits of Ferrisburg Quarterly Meeting, Vermont. Once, 
when from home in Truth's service, he felt a concern to 
appoint a meeting at a place where the inhabitants were 
very rough and uncivil. The Friends with whom he con- 
ferred on the subject hesitated, it appearing so unlikely 
that truth would find a place with such a people, and 



66 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

having fears as to the result of appointing a meeting. 
Not meeting with encouragement, he retired for the night, 
but next morning told his friends he felt best to relate 
to them a little incident which occurred in New England, 
in an early day, when slaves were held there. 

The son of a slave-holder had been educated for a 
preacher, and when his literary qualifications were com- 
pleted, received invitations from two congregations to 
settle with them. One was wealthy and could offer large 
inducements of a pecuniary nature ; the other, being poor, 
could not make such flattering propositions. 

The young man was somewhat perplexed, and applied 
to his father for advice. After some consultation he 
turned to an old slave who sat in a corner, and said, 
" Well, Cuffee, what do you think about it V^ '' Oh, mas- 
ter,'' said the slave, '' never mind so much about the 
money, go where there is most devil." 

The Friends saw the point, felt the rebuke, and were 
willing he should pursue his prospect ; which he did to 
satisfaction, having a favored meeting. 



DEBOEAH MOEEIS'S WILL. 

Deborah Morris, a Friend, who died about the year 
1800, preserved a family anecdote, by reciting it in her 
will, viz.: 

^^ Item. — I give to my nephew, Thomas Morris, the large 
old-fashioned silver salver, which belonged to my dear 
aunt, Elizabeth Hard, who with her husband came over 
(to Pennsylvania) with William Penn and other Friends. 
All that arrived in those early days wanted lodgings in 
the then wilderness, and hastened to provide themselves 
with temporary accommodations. Few of the first settlers 



DEBORAH morris's WILL. 67 

were of the laboring class, and help of that sort was 
scarcely to be had at any price, so that many of the 
women set to work they had never known before. 

" My good great-aunt (Hard) was accustomed to help 
her husband at building, and took one end of the crosscut 
saw with him ; she also fetched water for the mortar, 
wherewith to build the chimney for their cave. At one 
time her husband, perceiving her to be overwearied, said to 
her, 'My dear, thou hadst better give over and see about 
dinner.' On which, poor woman, she walked away, weep- 
ing as she went, for she knew their provisions were all 
spent, of which she had not told her husband, except a 
small quantity of biscuit and a little cheese ; but she 
thought she would try if any of her neighbors had any- 
thing to spare. 

" While reflecting on herself as she went along, for com- 
ing to America, to be exposed to such hardships, she felt 
reproved in her mind for distrusting a kind Providence 
who had hitherto provided* for them. Tn this humble 
state she reached her cave, and on her knees begged for- 
giveness for having murmured against the will of her 
Heavenl}^ Father. 

'' When she arose to 2:0 and call on her friends to ask 
their charity, the cat came home from a foraging expedi- 
tion, bringing a fine rabbit in its mouth, which she thank- 
fully took, and proceeded to dress it as an English hare. 
When her husband was informed of the fact, they both 
wept with reverential joy, and thankfully partook of the 
food so seasonably provided for them." 

Deborah Morris also bequeathed to her uncle, John 
Morris, another family relic, — a silver tureen, upon which 
was engraved the device of the cat bringing home a rabbit 
in its mouth. 



68 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 



ANTHOKY BEISTEZET. 

Anthony Benezet died Fifth month 3d, 1*784, aged 71 
years. His funeral was attended by persons of all classes 
and sects. Among them were hundreds of blacks, who 
truly mourned the loss of their beloved benefactor and 
friend. An officer in the American army, who followed 
the body to its final resting-place, remarked to a friend, 
" I would rather be Anthony Benezet in that coffin, than 
General Washinoton with all his fame." 



HUME, THE i:N^riDEL. 

Hume, the celebrated infidel philosopher, and author 
of a History of England, was dining at the house of an 
intimate friend. After dinner the ladies withdrew, and, 
in the course of conversation, Hume made some asser- 
tions which caused a gentleman present to observe to 
him, ''If you can advance such sentiments as those, you 
certainly are, what the world gives you credit for being, 
an infidel." A little girl whom the philosopher had often 
noticed, and with whom he had become a favorite, by 
bringing her little presents of toys and sweetmeats, hap- 
pened to be playing about the room unnoticed; she, how- 
ever, listened to the conversation, and on hearing the above 
expression, left the room, went to her mother, and asked 
her, "Mamma, what is an infidel?" "An infidel! my 
dear," replied her mother; "why should you ask such a 
question? An infidel is so awful a character that I 
scarcely know how to answer you." " Oh, do tell me 
mamma,'' returned the child, "I must know what an in- 
fidel is." Struck with her earnestness, her mother replied, 



HUME, THE INFIDEL. 69 

"An infidel is one who believes there is no God, no 
heaven, no hell, no hereafter.^' Some days afterwards, 
Hume again visited the house of his friend ; on entering 
the parlor he found no one there but his favorite little 
girl; he went to her, and attempted to take her up in his 
arms to kiss her, as he had been used to do, but the child 
shrank with horror from his touch. " My dear," said he, 
" what is the matter ? do I hurt you ?" '' No," she replied, 
'•you do not hurt me, but I cannot kiss you, I cannot 
pla}^ with you." "Why not, my dear?" "Because you 
are an infidel." "An infidel! what is that?" " One who 
believes there is no God, no heaven, no hell, no hereafter." 
"And are you not sorry for me, my dear?" asked the 
astonished philosopher. " Yes, indeed, I am sorry," re- 
turned the child, with solemnity, " and I pray to God 
for 3^ou." "Do you, indeed? and what do you say?" "I 
say, God, teach this man that thou art!" 

What a striking illustration of the words of sacred 
writ, "Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings thou 
hast ordained strength, because of thine enemies, that 
thou mightest still the enemy and avenger." (Ps. 8 : 2.) 

The infidel confessed himself so much struck with the 
seriousness and simplicity of the child, that it caused him 
some sleepless nights and days of sharp mental conflict. 
However, it is to be lamented that he stifled his convic- 
tion, and went on to the very borders of eternity, vainly 
flattering himself that he should prove " like the beasts 
that perish." 

"From the statements of Adam Smith, it would appear 
as though David Hume had approached the confines of 
life with the same thoughtless levity, respecting his eternal 
interests, as he had manifested through his life. Silliman, 
however, upon visiting the neighborhood in which his 
last days were spent, a few years afterwards, received a 



70 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

statement, derived from his nurse, which shows that the 
philosophy as well as the levity of Hume deserted him 
when the final moment came; and that, however lightly 
he seemed to look upon death when it was at a little 
distance, he died at last in horror." 



THOMAS WAEIKG. 

Thomas Waring, of West IN'ottingham, Maryland, was 
the son of Joseph and Mary Waring, of the county of 
Wexford, Ireland. He removed to this country with his 
l)arents and family in the year 1YT5, being then in the 
21st year of his age. 

He spent seven winters with his parents at East Not- 
tingham, in the line of his trade, which was that of a dish 
turner; and the summers were passed in farming on 
shares for Joseph Chambers, on White Clay Creek, within 
the limits of a meeting then held at Stanton, a component 
part of Wilmington Monthl}^ Meeting. In these seven 
3^ears he had fourteen certificates of removal; on chang- 
ing his residence spring and fall, if he did not request 
for himself. Friends would send one after him. Such 
was their care in those days. During the time he farmed 
for Joseph Chambers, it is said they disagreed but once, 
and that was in dividing the last crop, when each thought 
the other did not take enough. 

He subsequently settled in West Nottingham, where 
he passed the remainder of his life ; he and his unmar- 
ried sisters, Hannah and Mary, were severally taken 
from mutabilitj' in the 88th year of their age. An elder 
sister, Elizabeth Martin, and his wife Rebekah, daughter 
of Stephen and Martha Wilson, of Bucks County, Pa., 



THOMAS WARINO. 71 

were taken in their 91st year. The latter survived him 
nearly twelve years. 

When a young man, he had occasion to attend court at 
Elkton, and not being easy to comply with the custom of 
taking off the hat in honor to man, he several times had 
his taken off in court. One day, as he was standing in 
diffidence by the door, in the court-room, the crier came 
to him. and placing his hand on his shoulder, queried, 
"Are you a real Quaker?" T. W. — "I profess to be 
one.'' Crier. — " If you are a real Quaker you may keep 
3'our hat on." T. W. — "By what authority dost thou 
give me that information?" Crier. — "The court has 
taken it into consideration, and concluded that real 
Quakers may keep their hats on." Then turning to a 
member standing by, who did not always keep to the 
plain language, he added, " But you shall take your hat 

off." 

Among the occurrences in his early life are the follow- 
ing : He was once at work with a man he had hired, who 
gave him abusive language. He desired him to desist, 
but the abuse continuing, he presently found himself with 
the man prostrate* on his back, and he on him, holding 
him down. He afterwards remarked that he was much 
alarmed by finding himself in that position, and thought 
the man was as much so. It was a lesson of warning and 
instruction to him, showing the importance of being at 
all times guarded and on the watch ; and by attention 
thereto, with best help afforded, he was enabled to over- 
come his naturall}^ strong and irritable disposition, so 
that in more advanced life, an acquaintance remarked, 
he thought " Thomas hadn't quite temper enough." 

At one time, a woman Friend in the station of Elder, 
(a member of the same Monthly Meeting as himself,) 
was given to drowsiness in meetings. He was led to be- 



72 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

lieve it required of him to speak to her on the subject, 
but made many excuses ; still, being unable to feel clear 
of the concern, he one day concluded, as he rode to 
meeting on horseback, if it was a right concern he would 
meet with her by the way. As he passed into the road 
near her residence, she came out on horseback, and they 
rode some distance together, but still failing to comply 
with the impression of duty, he was for some time after- 
wards visited with the same weakness, and looked upon 
it as a judgment for his disobedience. 
. When Thomas Waring came to this countrj^ in 17*75, 
grass and grain were cut with scythes and sickles, requir- 
ing many hands to perform the labor, and it was generally 
thought that rum was indispensable, to enable the laborers 
to perform the work. A stranger in the countr}^, he fell 
in with the custom for a year or two, but finding the 
effect iv)t good, the third year he entirely declined it, 
which in harvest often exposed him to the ridicule of 
those he was working with ; and because he would not 
drink, they frequentl}'- used extra efforts to make him give 
out, but never succeeded in a single instance ; while some 
of those who took rum almost invariably gave out in 
making such efforts ; a circumstance he referred to in 
after-life, as an argument against the use of strong drink, 
saying he felt better when he arose in the morning, and 
through the day, and his thirst was less than when he 
had participated in its use. From that time forward he 
was not in the habit of using it himself, except as medi- 
cine, or of allowing any in his emplo}^ to use it. 

A Friend by the name of W purchased a farm 

in the neighborhood, and Thomas going his security for 
the purchase-money, had it to pay : afterwards, by mutual 

agreement, he took the farm to save himself. W 

then moved to Ohio, and died there, leaving a widow 



THOMAS WARING. 73 

with a large family of children. M. T., a member of 
another religions persuasion, having sold a farm and re- 
ceived $500 of the purchase-money, came to Thomas and 
bought this farm of him, paying him $50 in hand, with 
stipulations for the balance. Some days after this, M. T. 
came to throw up his purchase, saying he could not com- 
ply, as his farm was thrown up; but one thing was 
certain, he would keep the $500 he had received on it, 
yet he wanted Thomas to pay him back the $50. He did 
so with interest. Afterwards selling the farm for more 
than it cost him, he sent part of the money to the widow 

of W , and had the satisfaction of hearing she had 

it at interest in a way to be relieving in the support of 
her numerous family. 

From *'The Friend.'' 

"Departed this life (First month 26th, 1842) Thomas 
Waring, an esteemed elder and member of Nottingham 
and Little Britain Monthly Meeting, in the 88th year of 
his age. It is with no ordinary feelings we thus announce 
to his distant friends and acquaintances, a termination of 
the labors and usefulness of this, our beloved Friend, 
whose dedication and devotedness through a long life, 
have set forth so striking and encouraging an example to 
his survivors, speaking to them in the expressive language 
of conduct, 'Follow me, as I have endeavored to follow 
Christ.' Throughout a painful and lingering disease, of 
a cancerous affection, his patience and resignation bore 
a striking exemplification of the Christian character. 
The morning before his departure, though apparently not 
so near his end, he told his family he believed he should 
not live to see another day. He appeared desirous of 
having them collected around him, as if to witness 
the closing scene. He was perfectly calm and composed. 



74 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

His last moments of consciousness were dedicated in 
supplication for himself, and for those he left behind. 
Thus has he been gathered, we humbly believe, as a 
'shock of corn fully ripe,' into the garner of eternal 
rest, there to enjoy in endless fruition the reward laid up 
for the righteous. His genuine piety, and unobtrusive 
life and conversation, had endeared him to his neighbors, 
and all who knew him. His memory is sweetly embalmed 
in their affections, as was abundantly evinced in the 
spontaneous effusion of feeling, by a very large concourse, 
assembled to paj^ the last solemn tribute to his memory. 
' Mark the perfect man and behold the upright, for the 
end of that man is peace.' " 



GEORGE WHITEFIELD, ETC. 

Some of the early Methodists were much persecuted 
for their faithfulness in apprehended duty. At Notting- 
ham, England, George Whitefield's meetings were at- 
tended by "great multitudes," who thronged every avenue 
to the place. In some places, he said, "Satan rallied, 
giving notice of me by calling the people to a bear bait- 
ing; a drum is beat, and men are called to the market- 
place; but the arrows of the Lord can disperse them." 

At Rotherham several young men met at a tavern, and 
undertook, on a wager, to see who could best mimic him ; 
each in turn mounted the table, and opening a Bible, 
entertained his companions at the expense of everything 
sacred. A youth by the name of Thorpe was to close 
the scene ; and he exclaimed, on taking his stand, " I 
shall beat you all." Opening the Bible, his eye fell on 
the solemn sentence, " Except ye repent, ye shall all like- 
wise perish." It pierced the young man's soul. The 



AN infidel's death-bed. 75 

Truth mastered him. He spoke, but it was like a dying 
man to dying men. A profound seriousness spread over 
the company, and those who came to scoff, went away to 
weep. He afterwards became a preacher, as did also his 
son, William Thorpe. (About 1750.) 

It was probably at an earlier period, that one of the 
most violent opposers of Grimshaw and Ingham, was the 
vicar of Colne, a town on the borders of Yorkshire. On 
hearing of the arrival of any such preachers in his neigh- 
borhood, he used to call the people together by the beat- 
ing of a drum in the market-place, and enlisting a mob 
for the defence of the church. One of his proclamations 
to this end is curious, viz. : 

" Notice is hereby given, that if any man be mindful to 
enlist in his Majesty's service under the command of Rev. 
George White, commander-in-chief, and John Banister, 
lieutenant-general of his Majesty's forces for the defence of 
the Church of England, and the support of the manufac- 
tory in and about Colne, both of which are now in danger, 
let him repair to the drumhead at the cross, where each 
man shall receive a pint of ale in advance, and all other 
proper encouragement." 

The reckless fury of a force thus enlisted may be im- 
agined. The preachers and hearers were often pelted 
with stones and dirt, trampled into the mud, and beaten 
without mercy ; the constables rivalling the vicar in his 
violence and hatred against them. 



AN INFIDEL'S DEATH-BED. 

Some 3^ears ago, an individual well known and highly 
respected in the religious world, narrated in my hearing 
the following incident : '' In early life, w^hile, with a col- 



76 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

lege companion, he was making a tour on the Continent, 
at Paris his friend was seized with an alarming illness. 
A physician of great celebrity was speedilj^ summoned, 
who stated that the case was a critical one, and that much 
would depend upon a minute attention to his directions. 
As there was no one at hand upon whom they could place 
much reliance, he was requested to recommend some con- 
fidential and experienced nurse. He mentioned one, but 
added, ' You may think }< ourselves happ}^ indeed should 
you be able to secure her services ; but she is so much in 
request among the higher circles here, that there is little 
chance of finding her disengaged.^ The narrator at once 
ordered his carriage, went to her residence, and much to 
his satisfaction found her at home. He briefly stated his 
errand, and requested her immediate attendance. ' But 
before I consent to accompany you, permit me, sir,' said 
she, ' to ask you a single question : is your friend a 
Christian?' 'Yes,' he replied, 'indeed he is a Chris- 
tian in the best and highest sense of the term, a man who 
lives in the fear of God. But I should like to know your 
reason for such an inquiry.' ' Sir,' she answered, ' I 
was the nurse that attended Yoltaire in his last illness, 
and for all the wealth of Europe I would never see auotlier 
infidel die.' " — Ford^s Damascus. 



A MUKDER PEEYEKTED. 

A respectable tradesman, named Rich, in the North of 
England, had in his employ three young men, Matthew, 
James, and Samuel. Matthew was a pious man, and in 
all respects a good servant. But James and Samuel 
were artful and wicked men, who ate at the table and 
lived in the house of the man they meant to injure. 



A MURDER PREVENTED. 77 

At length James and Samuel entered into business on 
their own account, in a neighboring town ; but still dealt 
with the wholesale house of their former employer. 
Matthew continued in his situation for ^^ears, and when 
the duties of traveller were to be performed, they fell 
upon him. Time passed on, James and Samuel were 
settled, and in relation to their former emplo3'er ap- 
peared most amicable, when a remarkable incident oc- 
curred. 

" It was midwinter ; the day had been wet and the 
night was dreary, when Matthew, after a long ride on 
horseback, was returning home, having collected a con- 
siderable sum of monej^ ; and taking the shortest road, 
he had to ford a small brook. But when he reached the 
midst of the stream, his horse suddenly stopped, and 
restively refused to proceed, nor could he by any means 
induce him to go forward. Nothing remained but to 
take another road, which delayed and somewhat annoyed 
him, but he arrived safely at home. The next da}^ was 
the first of the week, and Matthew generally attended 
public worship thrice on that da}^, but he was so much 
fatigued, he proposed staying at home in the afternoon, 
while the famil}^ went out. His proposal was accepted, 
and he was left alone in the house, but instead of taking 
repose, as he at first inclined to, he resolved to spend 
a little time in private devotion. He therefore read 
his Bible, and knelt in prayer and found it good for him 
to draw nigh unto God. It was a favored season, but 
how long he continued in pra3'er he knew not. Rising 
from his knees, he said, ' This is none other than the 
House of God, and this is the Gate of Heaven.' 

"As soon as Rich came in, he perceived that some one 
had been to the bureau in which the mone}^ had been de- 
posited, and on examining found the entire sum had dis- 

7 



78 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

appeared. Matthew asserted he had not taken it, nor 
was he suspected, but the money was gone, and some one 
must have taken it. While conversing on the subject, a 
noise was heard, and hastening to discover the cause, 
they saw a man escaping from the neighboring premises, 
and had no doubt that he was the thief, but he ehided 
their pursuit. The money was in local bank notes, the 
numbers known, and payment was stopped at the bank. 
Months passed away, when Rich received a message from 
the bank, requesting his presence immediately. He 
went, and learned that James and Samuel, having pre- 
sented the missing notes, were detained. He required 
them to state how they became possessed of the money, — 
to clear themselves of suspicion, or confess their guilt, — 
assuring them that in the latter case, there would be no 
prosecution. Their deposition was as follows : 

'' ' On the day preceding the robbery, when Matthew 
called on them, the}^ thought he had a large sum of 
money with him, and resolved to waj^lay and rob him. 
They therefore provided arms, and were awaiting him 
when the horse refused to ford the brook ; but when thus 
far defeated, they managed to get that night into the 
house, where they remained in concealment until the 
afternoon, when they supposed all the family had left the 
house. They then entered the room in which they knew 
the money was usually kept, but it was not, as they had 
hoped, unoccupied. 

^' ' Matthew was there, and on his knees. What was 
to be done. No time must be lost. The money they 
were determined to have ; so one placed himself, pistol 
in hand, by the man at prayer, while the other proceeded 
to rifle the bureau. That was a critical moment, for had 
Matthew in any wa^^ indicated that he was aware of their 
presence, or attempted to rise from his knees, he would 



MARTHA ROUTE. 79 

have been shot. But he perceived them not, so they 
escaped with the booty, and his life was saved/ '' 

It was impossible to listen to their recital without a 
shudder, and while their former employer felt deeply such 
a marked interposition of Providence, he looked on those 
who had been guilty of such an enormity with mingled 
horror and pity. He remembered it is written, " Ven- 
geance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,'' and was 
content to leave them to Him. But though capable of 
such wickedness in secret, the}^ would not attempt to 
live where their guilt was known. A little time sufficed 
to settle their affairs, and then they left the country never 
to return. 

MAETHA EOUTH. 

(Extracted from her Journal.) 

1195. ITth of Fourth month. First day, we were at 
Cool Spring ; on second day, at Three Runs ; third, at 
Motherkiln ; in all which exercising labor was assigned ; 
the latter in particular was a very large, mixed gathering, 
in which were many black people. Strength was given 
to divide the word to the different states ; and I humbly 
trust it was a time thankfully to be remembered. The 
praise thereof was given to the Holy Head of the church, 
to whom alone it belonged. We went to Warner Mifflin's 
to dine, with several other friends, and feeling an exer- 
cise that drew to silence, I found it right to give way to 
it, and it became general with those present, among whom 
were several 3'oung people ; but very unexpected indeed 
were the remarks I had to make of the state of some we 
read of, who had made a covenant with death, and were at 
an agreement with hell. The secret conflict of my mind 
was great, in having such a passage to mention in a small 



80 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

company, among whom appeared little visible sign of 
deviation. I was informed some weeks after, that a 
young woman then present, the only child of a valuable 
minister, married, the same week, a man of deistical 
principles, and ordinary character. 

EOWLAND HILL. 

Rowland Hill was the sixth son of Sir Rowland Hill, 
Baronet, of Hawkstone, Shropshire. He received ''Dea- 
con's orders," in 1773. His successor af Surrey Chapel," 
Sherman, wrote concerning him : "Yearning over the 
spiritual miseries of men, he could not confine himself 
to the more regular and established mode of preaching 
in a church, but gladly engaged in that work wherever he 
could gather a congregation, whether in the market-place 
or in the cathedral, beneath the shade of a tree, or in the 
dissenting meeting-house ; his object being to win souls 
to Christ, and ally them to His spiritual church, found in 
every visible congregation of His worshippers. After 
having for some years preached in most of the counties 
of England, in many of the churches, chapels, and 
streets of the metropolis, and in the fields and commons 
of its vicinity, to large and deeply impressed audiences, 
he determined to erect a chapel in the southern part of 
London. A liberal subscription was commenced, to 
which he was the chief contributor." In 1783 ''Surrey 
Chapel " was opened for Divine worship, and Rowland 
Hill continued the pastor nearlj^ fifty years — until his 
death, which occurred in 1833. 

The energy of manner of Rowland Hill, and the power 
of his voice, are said to have been at times overwhelming. 
Once, while preaching at Wotton-under-Edge, his country 
residence, he was carried away by the impetuous rush of 



ROWLAND HILL. 81 

his feelings, and raising himself to his full height, ex- 
claimed, ''Beware, I am in earnest; men call me an 
enthusiast, but I am not ; mine are words of truth and 
soberness. When I first came into this part of the 
country, I was w^alking on yonder hill ; I saw a gravel- 
pit fall in and bury three human beings alive. I lifted 
up my voice so loud, that I was heard to the town below, 
a distance of a mile. Help came and rescued two of the 
poor sufferers. No one called me an enthusiast then, 
and when I see eternal destruction ready to fall upon 
poor sinners, and about to entomb them irrevocabl}^ in an 
eternal mass of w^oe, and call on them to escape, by re- 
penting and fleeing to Christ, shall I be called an enthu- 
siast ? No, sinner, 1 am not an enthusiast in so doing.'' 

To a friend Rowland Hill wrote : " Fine affected 
flourishes and unmeaning rant are poor substitutes for 
plain, simple, unaffected gospel truths ; yet such sort of 
preaching will have its admirers ; and it is surprising 
what strange stuff, of different sorts, will make up a pop- 
ular preacher; insomuch that being registered in that 
number, should rather fill us with shame than with 
pride." 

When asked his opinion of the excitement produced 
by a certain preacher, he said, '' This cannot last ; he is 
like a skyrocket that goes off blazing into the air, but 
the dry stick soon falls to the ground and is forgotten.'' 

"How different," said he, "the poor tools of ministers 
of our manufacturing, when compared with the burning 
and shining lights the Lord can send forth." 

On a tour in Yorkshire, Rowland Hill paid a visit to 
an old friend of his, who said to him: "It is just sixty- 
five 3'ears since I first heard you preach, and I remember 
3'Our text, and part of 3^our sermon." " 'Tis more than 
I do," was the reply. "You told us," his friend pro- 



82 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

ceeded, " that some people were very squeamish about 
the delivery of different ministers, who preached the 
same gospel. You said, ' Suppose you were attending to 
hear a will read, where you expected a legacj^ to be left 
you, would you employ the time when it was reading in 
criticizing the manner in which the lawyer read it ? No, 
you would not, you would be giving all ear to hear if any- 
thing was left to you^ and how much it was. That is the 
way I would advise yoM to hear the gospel.'" 

In his 82d year, he remarked, " The older I grow, the 
more I feel my need of the Saviour, and the only evi- 
dence I have of my interest in Him, is the life-giving in- 
fluence of a living Redeemer on my heart — we know that 
we are His, by the spirit which He hath given us. fine 
expression, — because I live^ ye shall live also. If Jesus 
lives in our hearts by faith, then, and then on\y^ can you 
saj^, I know that my Redeemer liveth. This language 
belongs only to those who are dead iyideed unto sin, but 
alive unto God, through Jesus Christ, their living and 
life-giving Lord." 

Extract of a Letter from John Berridge to Rowland Hill, 

" Luther used to say, ' when the Lord had fresh work 
for him, a strong trial was sent beforehand, to prepare 
him for it by humiliation.' Stud}^ not to be a fine 
preacher ; Jerichos are blown down with rams' horns. 
Look simply unto Jesus for preaching food, and what is 
wanted will be given, and what is given will be blessed, 
whether it be a barley or a wheaten loaf, a crust or a 
crumb." (Probably in 1T73.) 

During the political riots which broke out in England 
in 1180, threatening the peace of the realm, Rowland 
Hill often went to St. George's Fields, in the southern 



INDIAN DISCOURSE. 83 

suburbs of London, a place of disorderly assemblages 
and seditious vigils, and addressed vast concourses of 
discontented and starving workmen, upon the verities of 
the world to come. His intrepid addresses were charged 
with hidden power; they pierced the consciences of men 
hungry for bread and heated with political excitement ; 
the grievances of the present life, great as they seemed 
to be, and great as they really were, sank into compara- 
tive insio-nificance before the momentous interests of the 
life to come. Stout hearts gave way; aery went up for 
the bread of life, and they who had nothing to expect 
from earthly sovereigns, gained access to the Throne of 
Grace. Nor is it surprising that hatred and spite aimed 
their shafts at the bold, yet true, reformer. Often he was 
pelted with stones, lampooned, or burnt in ef^gy^ which, 
with the displeasure of his parents, and the undisguised 
uneasiness felt by many of his true yet timid friends, 
might have damped a heart less resolutely devoted to 
his Master's cause. 



INDIAN DISCOURSE 

AT A FUNERAL ON THE ALLEGHANY RESERVATION, N. Y. 

On the 19th of Third month, 1851, we attended the 
funeral of Julia Ray's child, aged five months, taking 
with us Sally Shongo, an Indian girl, about twelve years 
of age, who had lived with us nearly a year. I desired 
her to pa}^ particular attention to what might be said, and 
repeat it to me. 

Two days passed before I had an opportunit}^ to speak 
to her respecting it ; she then said she could not tell me. 
I observed that I had desired her to remember ; she an- 



84 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

swered she did not forget what Jacob Blacksnake said, 
but could not tell me. " Why ?" " I cannot talk English." 
I assured her I could understand her, and though often 
interrupted she gave me (with much apparent serious- 
ness) the following account : 

Jacob Blacksnake said, '' That boy never said any bad 
words, he could not talk, he was too little, he never 
thought any bad thoughts. He had gone away up above, 
where the Good Man lives ; Julia must not be sorry too 
much ; if she would try to be good, she would see her boy 
again. 

" There are two roads through this world, one straight, 
the other crooked" (designating the first by tracing a 
straight line along his left hand, with the fore-finger of 
his right, the other by making a zigzag course) ; '' people 
that go in the straight road, go where the good man lives ; 
and they that go in the crooked one, where the bad man 
lives; in an iron house, red hot." He said, "This fire" 
(pointing to a large one on the hearth behind him) '' is 
not hot; but there it is hot, oh very, very hot." 

''Where the Good Man lives is a very pleasant place; 
strawberries and blackberries are there, and birds sing 
ver}' good ; wind that blows there smells very good ; great 
many flowers all around where God sits, and He looks 
what people are doing. He writes it down when people 
do good, and when they do bad. 

'' Smells very sweet where God sits. God very sorry 
when people drink whisky; when somebody dies, the 
Good Man comes down and gives something good to eat 
to good folks ; and when bad folks die, bad man gives 
them bad things to eat. 

" Good Man very happy when a great many good peo- 
ple there ; bad man would be very sorry if no bad folks 
where he lives. 



INDIAN DISCOURSE. 85 

" Children must try to be good ; they will be sorry when 
the}^ die if they are bad, for they will go to the bad place; 
if children tell stories, when they are dead God asks 
them, how many stories did you tell? God knows how 
many ; He knows everything we say. It is very bad to 
fight ; when two boys fight, God pnts his head between 
them, and when they strike, they hurt God. 

'' The sun is getting old now, and this world will soon 
be burnt up if people are so bad, drink whisky, and tell 
stories, and steal ; and people that drink whisky, and tell 
stories, and steal, will go to the bad place ; they should 
stop, and try to get ready to go where the Good Man 
lives. If people will be good, the world will stay longer; 
it cannot stay longer, if people are so bad. 

'' You are happy when you go drink whisky, but when 
you die, 3^ou won't be happ}^, for Good Man saj's, 3^ou liked 
whisky, you shall go drink more whisky. The bad man 
has something he calls whisky ; it is like what people make 
balls of to put in their guns to shoot, and it is boiling in 
a big boiler ; he takes some out in a spoon, and pours it 
into their mouths ; it goes whis-s-s, and runs all the way 
down them like fire. 

"Men, women, and children, remember what I say; 
you must think all the time of what I say ; when I die, 
and you die, you will be sorry if you don't mind what I 
say. Children will sa}^, ' My grandfather, Jacob Black- 
snake told me, but I did not mind,' and they will be very 
sorry when they are dead." (He said more, not distinctly 
remembered.) 

Tliis was shown to an educated Indian, who said he did 
not doubt the translation being in substance correct. 

Those Indians do not have regular preachers at their 
funerals, but sometimes one, sometimes another, or two 
or three speak. Jacob Blacksnake called himself the 

8 



86 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

children's " grandfather.'' The Senecas are divided into 
what may be called ''clans," and those 'belonging to one 
clan speak of each other as relatives, father, mother, 
sister, &c. Jacob was a chief, a very intelligent and 
respectable man, son of '' Governor Blacksnake," who was 
the oldest and most influential chief on the Reservation. 



Il!^DIAK WITJS^ESS. 

A Seneca Indian was summoned as a witness, before a 
magistrate in Cattaraugus County, New York. The 
'' Esquire," thinking the Indian appeared stupid, and that 
probably he did not understand the nature of an oath, 
queried with him what would be the consequence of his 
giving false testimony. The Indian answered, " May be 
I be found out, put in jail, and stay there long tim6 ; then 
when I die I catch it again.^^ 

His testimony was received. 



MEHETABEL JENKIXS. 

Whilst Mehetabel Jenkins was in E norland on a relio:- 
ious visit (perhaps in the year 178Y), she attended the 
circular meeting held at Exeter. Catharine Phillips was 
also at the meeting, and in the exercise of her beautiful 
and acceptable gift, spoke largely to those assembled. 
After Catharine had ceased, Mehetabel, who was an illit- 
erate woman, and not extensive as a minister, stood up 
and delivered a brief testimonj'. Some one complained 
to Timothy Bevington, that such a friend as Mehetabel 
should speak in such a large meeting. The complainant 
thought good order required that an opportunity should 



CALEB PENNOCK. 87 

be taken with Mehetabel, to prevent the possibility of 
her disturbing large gatherings, and said, the Friend's 
gift appeared better adapted to small meetings of our own 
Society. Timothy Bevington, from whom the anecdote 
is derived, replied, he believed no harm had been done. 
It so happened that he had invited a man of some stand- 
ing in Exeter to attend this circular meeting, who accepted 
the invitation. Soon after he met Timothy, and expressed 
his warm thanks for the treat he had received. Timothy 
said he was pleased to find him so well satisfied, adding, 
" My friend Catharine Phillips is considered a great min- 
ister.'' '' Yes," replied his friend, " we know Mrs. Phil- 
lips is a very sensible woman ; we therefore are not 
surprised to hear her preach a good sermon ; but the few 
words the elderly lady from America said, were to me far 
more weight}^, and suited to the situation of my mind, 
than anj^thing Mrs. Phillips had to say. I hope to be 
thankful as long as I live, for the great instruction and 
sensible feeling of divine goodness I experienced from 
the sweet, short sermon of your American Friend." 



CALEB PEXXOCK. 

Caleb Pennock was born in East Marlborough, Chester 
County, Pennsj^lvania, Ninth month 24th, 1752. During 
his apprenticeship he met with many temptations, and 
some unusual trials, in passing through which he was 
remarkably favored. 

After his marriage, being actively engaged in provid- 
ing for the wants of his family, he did not feel bound to 
attend week-day meetings ; but became convinced of his 
error, in an opportunity which William Jackson (in the 
course of a religious visit to the members of their 



88 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

Monthly Meeting) had in his family. Alluding to the 
change in his feelings, he remarked, "I had now another 
Master, and had to attend both First and week-day 
meetings.'^ Some time after this he removed with a 
certificate to Kennet Monthly Meeting, held alternately 
at Kennet and Centre. The latter place was eight miles 
from his residence, and thither he frequently walked, 
entering no house by the way ; and often on these 
occasions lending his horses to others. He was cautious 
not to grasp after the things of this world, lest he should 
lose a better inheritance. 

When he became convinced it was the Divine Will he 
should call others to repentance, he long evaded the 
requisition, adopting the language of Moses, ''Kill me, I 
pray thee, if thou dealest thus with me ;'' but at length 
gave up his own will, and became a faithful and humble 
minister of the Gospel. He looked upon his services, 
both in public and private, with great humility, saying, 
" We are but as a speck on the earth, in the view of our 
Almighty Creator, whom we ought ever to obey.'' He 
was much grieved by the departure from primitive plain- 
ness and ancient simplicity in dress and furniture, among 
the members of our Religious Society, which, beginning 
in cities, spread abroad into the country. He said he felt 
so discouraged at times, with seeing innovations among 
Friends, that he was read}^ to wish with the prophet for 
a hiding-place, beholding with sorrow a backsliding into 
many things that our predecessors had to renounce 
through great sufferings, and whose blood may be re- 
quired at our hands, if we let their testimonies fall. The 
erroneous use of the plural language to a single per- 
son, he thought a mark of great declension ; and was 
deeply grieved with the practice of some nominal pro- 
fessors, who taught their children to say the Lord's 



CALEB PENNOCK. 89 

prayer formally, at going to bed, or other stated periods, 
kneeling down, &c. In the last Yearly Meeting he at- 
tended (1840), alluding to the alteration in the query on 
love and unity, he regretted the omission of the words, 
'•as becomes the followers of Christ,'' because in this 
fellowship was the only true unity. 

On the 3d of First month, 1843, a young female min- 
ister (Edith Jeffries) attended Kennet Monthly Meeting, 
and the next day wrote as follows, viz.: ''After I did the 
little that was given me, Caleb (Pennock) arose and took 
up the same subject, but opened it in another light. He 
compared our Society to a building that had been torn to 
pieces; 3^et.he said all was not to be lost, for there were 
many pieces of plank that were worth saving. These 
would be taken care of, and would go towards erecting 
the fabric again, when they had been hewn and squared ; 
for the building was to stand. He alluded to the sepa- 
ration that was past, and said this was not sufficient to 
humble us ; and now the enemy was permitted to tempt 
us 3^et again ; but his power was limited, and we were 
not about coming to an end ; for the testimonies pro- 
fessed by Friends were in accordance with the Gospel of 
Jesus Christ, and must prevail over all others. 

" He was still more striking in the second meeting. The 
partitions not closing tightly, we could hear very plainly. 
He was addressing the young men, and, amongst other 
things, said, the enemy, in order to have successful 
instruments in his own hand, had tempted many filling 
high stations among us, and had led them off; so that it 
might be said, ' The leaders of my people have caused 
them to err ;' and these were leading awa}^ others. Th^ 
enemy had got up a counterfeit; and not only got it up, 
but also got it to pass ; and- if we expect a counterfeit to 
pass, it must very nearly resemble the thing itself, or it 



90 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

would not do ; but after all it would not bear inspection, 
however near the resemblance might be ; but, Friends, 
the true thing loill ! How Original, how true ! These are 
nearly the words^ but the feeling which accompanied 
them cannot be conveyed. We dined together at J. B.'s; 
and while I sat feasting on his redeemed-looking counte- 
nance, he turned to me, and said, 'I have latelj^ been made 
to believe that the enemy was permitted to follow us to 
the very gate ; and that we shall not be safe until we get 
inside of it. And sometimes he tempts me to doubt 
whether I shall ever get inside, b}" bringing all the sins 
of my youth before me, and making me fear that I have 
never fully repented of them. Ah ! what a sorrowful 
thing it will be, if, after all my struggling, I should be 
cut off at last ! But I am sometimes given to feel that 
it is the work of the enemy, and sometimes I am afraid 
it is not ; and this brings me very low.' Oh what a lesson 
was this to me, coming from one that is now in his ninety- 
first year, and who, we believe, without a doubt, will in a 
few more da3^s be gathered home unto his fathers in 
peace. How ought it to teach us that the humble follower 
is never safe, only so long as he is made to feel the 
necessity of obe^dng the command, 'Watch and pray,' 
and that even unto the end. May I remember this !'' 

On the day of Western Quarterly Meeting in the 
Eighth month, a number of Friends called to see Caleb 
Pennock. He appeared pleased that they had thus re- 
membered him, and stammered falteringl}^, " I feel more 
than I can manifest," &c. He was disabled by a para- 
lytic stroke a few months previous to his decease, but 
his faculties appeared to be clear, and he was preserved 
in much sweetness to the last. 

He quietl}^ departed, on the 25th of the Eleventh month, 
1843, in the 92d year of his age ; and was buried on the 



JACOB LINDLEY. 91 

2*7th, at Parkerville, after which a large and memorable 
meeting was held. 

EXTEACTS FROM A JOURlSrAL OF 
JACOB LIoS'DLEY. 

In the year 1793, Jacob Lindley, a minister in the 
Society of Friends, residing in New Garden, Chester 
Count}^, was appointed, with others, to attend an Indian 
treaty proposed to be held at a place, then a wilderness, 
and only to be approached by long and sometimes dan- 
gerous travelUug. They were '' absent on this toilsome, 
exercising journey about four months and a half." 
Jacob Lindley left an interesting account of the journey, 
from which the following anecdotes are extracted. 

" 12th of Sixth month. — Had a solid conference with 
David Kennedy, a half Indian, a man of learning and a 
man of influence. Having been educated in Scotland, he 
visited London, Jamaica, &c. He lives with the Indians 
and professes Christianity ; is well versed in the Scrip- 
tures, and saj^s he has initiated divers into the Christian 
faith, by a medium widely contrasted with our mode. 
He told us some Indians used to mock and ridicule his 
going to church, but at a certain time, he undertook to 
drub them severely, and ordered them and their families 
to attend church in future, or he would be under the ne- 
cessity of dealing more sharply with them. On which 
they appeared the next day of public worship, and had 
continued steady ever since ; he supposed it the most 
substantial method of making converts, as also of ending- 
quarrels or disputes. To all which I opposed several 
texts out of the New Testament ; to the validity of which 
he assented, and strongly avowed his friendship for us, 
and promised to use his influence, in order to open our 



92 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

way amongst the other nations of his acquaintance, which 
is extensive. 

" 19th of Seventh month.— Staid mostly at our lodgings, 
writing and conversing with some intelligent travellers. 
One of them related a conversation between one Fro- 
bisher, a merchant in the northwest trade, when at the 
Grand Portage, west end of Lake Superior, and an old 
Indian from the northwest, which so much coincided 
with my own sentiments, that I note it. Frobisher was 
inquiring after the curiosities of the northern clime, 
which the Indian related as far as he had travelled ; but 
added, that younger Indians, who had travelled further 
northwest, had seen some things still more wonderful. 
Frobisher asked him if he did not think some parts of 
their relation untrue ? The old Indian replied : ' No ; it 
is not possible it can be lies, for they have never seen a 
white man in their lives.' '' 

A severe reflection on Christians, so called. 



A KAVEK IN 1766. 

In the year 1766, the especial interposition of Divine 
Providence was manifested in a most extraordinary man- 
ner, to a poor laborer, at Sunderland. This man, being 
employed in hedging near an old stone quarry, went to 
eat his dinner, in a deep excavation, in order to be shel- 
tered from the weather, which was stormy; and as he 
went along, pulled off his hedging gloves, and threw them 
down at some distance from each other. While at his 
repast, he observed a raven pick up one of them, with 
which he flew away, and very soon afterwards returned 
and carried off the other. The man being greatly sur- 
prised rose to see if he could trace where the bird had 



WILLIAM KIRK AND WIFE. 93 

gone with his gloves. He scarcely had cleared the 
quarry, before he saw large fragments of rock, &c., fall 
down into the very place where he had been seated, and 
where, if he had continued a minute longer, he must in- 
evitably have been crushed to pieces. 



A STUDEISTT AKD DUKE. 

Doctor J. Fothergill, after having been some time in 
medical attendance on a titled personage (it is believed 
a Duke), sent one of his students to Ansit him. The 
young man, anxious to find favor in the eyes of the titled 
patient, assumed a manner and address different from 
those in which he had been educated. The Duke, in sur- 
prise, queried if he were not of the same profession with 
Dr. Fothergill ? and receiving an affirmative answer, de- 
sired he wouhl leave him, and inform the Doctor he was 
not disposed to trust his life in the hands of a man who 
was false to his religious profession. 



WILLIAM KIKK AND WIFE. 

Early in the last century, William Kirk and his wife 
removed from the neighborhood of Wilmington (Dela- 
ware), and took up a tract of land on the northern side 
of Chester County, now East Nantmeal Township. It was 
almost entirely a wilderness, and when they took posses- 
sion of the cabin he had put up for them in the w^oods, 
they were much secluded from intercourse with others. 

His means were limited, but he was energetic and in- 
dustrious, and his wife, who was a valuable helpmate, 
united her endeavors to his in procuring a subsistence 



94 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

for their increasing family. Many difficulties beset them, 
but the}^ were generally enabled to overcome them more 
easily than they had expected. Of one period of priva- 
tion and threatened famine, which occurred when but a 
small portion of their land had been brought under cul- 
tivation, he sometimes told in after-life with tears. It 
was the closest trial of their faith. 

At that time he had no one to assist him but his wife's 
brother, a lad of ten or twelve years of age. The crop 
of grain they had raised was light, and after sowing for 
the next harvest, the quantity left was far from sufficient 
for the family through the approaching winter. Then 
William became disabled by rheumatism, the sustenance 
for the family was exhausted, the ground so covered 
with snow as to be almost impassable, and he was unable 
to seek abroad for means of avoiding the suffering which 
threatened them. 

In this time of extreme peril his wife mounted a horse, 
and taking with her a web of homespun linen, set out 
for a distant mill. She left their cabin early in the 
morning, having snow from three to four feet deep to 
pass through, and many drifts much deeper. 

The journey was very difficult, and when she reached 
Ashbridge's mill, near where Westtown school now 
stands, the day was far advanced. She told the miller 
the situation of the family ; that they had no money, 
but had a crop of grain in the ground, and offered her 
linen in pledge for flour, until they could redeem it after 
harvest. The miller's heart was touched ; he replied he 
wished no security but her word, gave her as much as 
her horse could carry, and offered to supply all they 
should need until harvest. 

With a weary horse heavily laden, she travelled all 
night to reach her home, where her invalid husband and 



MARY RIDGWAY AND JANE WATSON. 95 

young brother were sitting up, anxiously awaiting her 
arrival. The children had cried for food, and their 
father scraped from the kneading-bowl something of 
which he made a kind of porridge, which, with some 
boiled dry beans, having in a measure allayed their hun- 
ger, they had forgotten their troubles in sleep. 

The mother reached the cabin in safety; and when 
she entered it, the bearer of good news and life-sustaining 
food, both she and her husband were so overcome that 
they fell into each other's arms and wept. 



ABEL THOMAS. 

The industrious do not always accumulate much of 
this world's riches. Sometimes their Heavenly Father 
sees the need of crosses, even in temporals, and admin- 
isters to them losses of various kinds ; but the Lord's 
dedicated children can often perceive His hand in these 
dispensations, and being content therewith, still find 
godliness great gain. Abel Thomas was active and pru- 
dent in his worldly business. A Friend who admired 
his industry and management said to him, "I suppose 
thou art growing rich, Abel!" "No," said the old 
Friend, seriously, "I have been mercifully blessed with 
many losses." 



MAEY EIDGWAY AND JANE WATSON. 

Mary Ridgway and Jane Watson, two ministering 
Friends from Ireland, who visited this country about 
1790, were much favored with spiritual discernment and 
gospel authority in their labors. Mary Ridgway, with 



96 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

clear judgment to condemn departure from the truth, was 
yet a meek-spirited, mild-spoken advocate of the Gospel 
of Christ Jesus ; whilst Jane Watson was bluntly honest, 
and spoke home truths in plain, straightforward, and 
sometimes sharp language. She was one to whom a 
description given by that late worthy minister, Ann 
Jones, of another Friend, would very properly apply: 
'' He hewed to the mark, no matter what became of the 
chips." 

Mary and Jane, in the course of a visit to the meetings 
of Burlington Quarter, attended one, with the members 
of which, excepting one man elder, they were wholly 
unacquainted. Jane rose, and whilst her strong voice 
and Irish accent seemed to give emphasis to her words, 
took for her text, " Love is strong as death ; jealousy is 
cruel as the grave ; the coals thereof are coals of fire, 
which hath a most vehement flame.'' In descanting on 
the nature of jealousy, she drew a vivid picture of a 
w^orthy female, who, not without cause, was suffering 
under its pangs. At this stage of her communication, 
she had some consolation to hand forth to the person. 
She then turned her discourse to the husband of the suf- 
ferer, the evil instrument of her sorrows, and proceeded, 
as though reading over a narrative of bygone events, to 
proclaim his hypocrisy and shame. As she told of his 
lapses from honor and virtue, she exclaimed, " What, 
Friends, if I could almost lay m}^ hands upon him!" 

Jane Watson then sat down, and soon after Mary 
Ridgway arose, and in her beautiful and impressive 
manner addressed the meeting on the difference between 
a real religion and that mere outward show, which to 
casual and superficial observers seemed as lovely as the 
real. She compared the appearance without the sub- 
stance to the pictures of the painter, and the statuary of 



LETTER FROM PETER YARNALL. 97 

the sculptor, beautiful to look upon, and yet they were 
not the things they represented. 

When the meeting closed, the two Friends went home 
with their acquaintance, the elder. He spoke to Jane on 
the subject of her ministrj^, expressed his doubts as to 
there being any such person there, and said he thought 
there must be some mistake. "No mistake at all!" said 
the straightforward Jane. '^ Who was that plain man 
that sat on the bench fronting me, who, when I began to 
speak, looked up so boldly in my face, but presently 
drooped his head, and did not raise it again during the 
meeting? That is the man!" 

This person was at that time aa overseer of the meeting, 
and for aught that his neighbors knew, was exemplary in 
his domestic relations, as he appeared to be in his out- 
ward walks among^st men. But in three weeks from the 
time of this meeting, a train of hidden depravity trans- 
pired, and the sufferings of his wife, which Jane had so 
graphically delineated, were found to have been a sad 
reality. 

It is said that Jane Watson once, commenting on the 
flimsy excuses of those in the parable, who, on being in- 
vited to the supper, declined, because of various trifling 
worldly engagements, when she came to treat on the 
answer, •' I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot 
come," remarked, ''This was the greatest fool of all, for 
he should have gone, and taken his wife with him." 



LETTER PROM PETER YARNALL. 

In 1789, Peter Yarnall visited the settlement at Red- 
stone, and parts of Virginia. During his absence from 



98 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

home, he addressed a letter to James Bringhurst (dated 
First month 23d, 1190), from which the following is 
extracted : 

" How low is the state of our Society in many places, 
and even in your great and opulent city, unto whom the 
Lord hath been gracious, blessing it with the dew of 
heaven, and the fatness of the earth ; and he is now call- 
ing to its inhabitants for fruits, answerable to the favors 
and mercies bestowed. 

'' Too many of those who have been invited by him to 
the marriage supper, have been pleading excuses, the 
world and its votaries have obstructed their way, and 
many have been wounded and slain b}^ its friendships, 
and its spirit, whom the Lord had designed for usefulness 
in his church. The pomp and glory of things transient 
and fading have dimmed their lights, and they are thus 
kept back from the enjoyment of the banquet of the King's 
Son, the possession of the pearl of great price ! Yet they 
are still invited, and the call goes forth into the streets 
and lanes of the city, and the highways and hedges ; for 
still there is room, and his table will be filled with guests. 

r 

'' The world, the flesh, and the devil, still endeavor to 
prevent us, who are called to the marriage supper of the 
Lamb, from accepting the invitation, and from taking 
our places in wedding garments, fitted and prepared by 
him. The love of wealth and the results of it are, and 
have been the main causes of the degeneracy visible in 
the families of many Friends in modern times. During 
the early days of our Society, when the Friends were 
everywhere spoken against and persecuted, a dance or 
play of some kind was introduced and acted on the stage 
in the city of London, which, although almost blasphe- 
mous in its parts, was one in which a striking soul-im- 
portant truth was set forth. A person was introduced, 



LETTER FROM PETER YARNALL. 99 

intended, with awfal boldness, to represent the Almighty 
Creator of the world ; another was to personify the devil; 
others were mortals seeking to obtain, b}^ petitioning the 
Dispenser of all benefits, that which seemed most desira- 
ble to them. Each one was allowed one request, and that 
one was always granted ; one wished riches, and obtained 
it; another honor, another revenge on his enemies; at 
last a poor persecuted Quaker was introduced, who asked 
for the ' kingdom of Heaven.' AYhen the others found 
he had obtained it, with one consent they cried out that 
the}' had forgotten the kingdom of heaven, and wanted 
that also. They were told it was too late ; their choice 
was made, and they must abide by it. At this part of the 
play, he who represented the devil, addressing the per- 
secutors of the Quakers, said to this effect : ' You are 
fools ! you persecute the Quakers and cast them into 
prison ; taking away their goods and living from them, 
so that they have no certainty of either liberty or estate ; 
and that tends to wean them from lower enjoyments, and 
to keep them low and humble, which puts them out of my 
reach. I will tell you what to do. Let them alone ; and 
as they are an honest industrious people, there will be a 
blessing on their labors, and they will grow rich and proud ; 
build them fine houses, and get fine furniture, and they 
will lose their humility, and become like other people, 
and then I shall have them.' 

'' What an abundance of fine houses, fine furniture, and 
fine pictures, are found amongst us in these degenerate 
days, which our worthy ancestors would not have been 
willing to have owned. It is but recently we observed a 
notice of a painting made for a member active in Societ}' 
matters, the pay of which is in dollars, counted by thou- 
sands. Was there a momentary suspension of the cries 
of the poor and starving for bread, when the bargain for 



100 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

wasting so large a portion of their rightful inheritance 
was made ? Who, with a Christian heart, does not know 
that the superabundant resources of the rich is a fund, in 
the will and ordering of Divine Providence, on which the 
necessities of the poor have a right to draw. Thus^ who- 
ever wastes them, is in fact spoiling the property" of 
others, taking the food from the mouth, the clothes from 
the back, the shelter from the head of the starving, the 
naked, the outcast. 

" Our friend, Anthonj^ Benezet, who felt himself re- 
strained from all needless expense, whether in adminis- 
tering to his own comfort, or to the gratification of what 
might be considered good taste, being in a store where 
many fine, costly goods were sold, exclaimed aloud, 
' What a number of beautiful things are here which I do 
not want.' Were he turned into the picture galleries 
of some bearing our name, to the parlors, ornamented 
with painting and gilding, to the chambers, to the libra- 
ries, to the wardrobes ; with both hands uplifted, we might 
hear him exclaim, with greater earnestness of spirit than 
he ever felt when he wrote the words, ' The sumptuous- 
ness of our dwellings, our equipage, our dress, furniture, 
and the luxury of our tables, will become a snare to us, 
and amatter of reproach to the thinking part of mankind!' 

" The sorrowful effect of an attachment to the riches, 
the honor, the enjoyments, the comforts of this life, are 
strikingly set forth in a dream of Samuel FothergilPs. 
He says, ' One night after I had retired to rest, I was led 
to trace back the transactions of my life, from my cradle 
even to that very time. The remembrance filled my soul 
with humble thankfulness, and serenity of mind, in the 
blessed assurance of being eternally happy, if I never 
opened my eyes more in this world. With these consid- 
erations and deep impressions of mind, I fell into a natu- 



NANTUCKET. 101 

ral sleep, and thought the dissolution of the world was 
come ; that I heard a trumpet, at which the earth and 
sea were to give up their dead. Afterwards they assem- 
bled in great numbers before the presence of the Most 
High, at the tribunal seat of justice ; many on the right 
hand in white, and multitudes on the left, whose clothing 
was dark and gloomy. I thought I accompanied those 
on the right ; and we were borne away as upon the wings 
of archangels to the celestial regions of eternal bliss. 
From thence I returned to view those miserable objects 
on the left, for whom all that was within me was con- 
cerned. I saw many that were clothed in white, 3^et at a 
distance, some of them individuals now in the body. I 
said, Lord what have these done that they are left be- 
hind? Then instantly their white raiment fell off, and I 
beheld them bound as with shackles of iron and fettered 
to the earth.' '^ 

]SrA:N^TUCKET. 

The island of Nantucket was first discovered by Bjorne 
Herjulfson, a Norwegian navigator, in the year 985, 
while on a voyage from one of the Greenland colonies. 
The first Englishman who saw it was Bartholomew Gos- 
nald, in 1602. This island was included in the grant to 
the Pl3'mouth Company, made by patent from the 
English Crown in 1620, and jurisdiction over it was 
claimed under that patent by Ferdinando Gorges and 
William, Earl of Sterling, by whom it was conveyed to 
Thomas Ma^^hew, about the year 1641. In 1659 Mayhew 
conveyed to Tristram Coffin, Thomas Macy, Christopher 
Hussey, Richard Swain, Thomas Barnard, Peter Coflin, 
Stephen Greenleaf, John Swain, and William Pile, nine- 
tenths of the island (excepting that part called Quaise), 

9 



102 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

to hold in common with himself. Each of these ten was 
soon authorized to select an associate or partner, and 
thus the number of proprietors was increased to twenty. 
The consideration named in the deed was "thirty pounds 
of current pay, and also two beaver hats, one for myself 
and one for my wife.'' 

These ten men felt, however, that although they now 
possessed all the title which the Crown could give, 3^et 
the Indians, the original occupants of the soil, were the 
true owners. The}^ immediately opened negotiations 
with the different sachems, and succeeded ere long in 
purchasing from them a greater part of the land. 

In the autumn of 1659 Thomas Macy, one of the pur- 
chasers, residing in Salisbury, being persecuted on ac- 
count of having given shelter in his house to four 
Quakers for three-quarters of an hour in a rain-storm, 
left his home in an open boat, with his family and Ed- 
ward Star buck, and in a short time landed upon the 
north side of the island, where the}^ found about fifteen 
hundred Indians, by w^hom they were kindly treated. 
The island was covered with oak woods which abounded 
in game ; fish and birds were plenty. 

In the spring of 1660 Starbuck returned to Salisbury, 
and induced several proprietors with their families to ac- 
company him to his new home. 



FEOM THE JOUKKAL OF J0H:N' FOTHERGILL. 

" On the 9th of Fourth month, 1Y3Y, the Yearly Meeting 
began at Portsmouth, Rhode Island, and a large, pre- 
cious meeting it was. I returned to Newport, where the 
Yearl}^ Meeting continued and held four days; the assem- 
bly being large and peaceable, and at times comfortable 



NANTUCKET. 103 

in the arisings of the mighty power and love of God, 
who had the glory and praise. 

" On the 24th the Yearly Meeting began at Nantucket. 
It was large, and continued four days to true satisfac- 
tion, and the name of the Lord was glorified. 

'* * Nantucket, Sixth month 28th, 1755. 
" ' Here is a very large meeting of professors upon this 
island, which is, with respect to its soil, a sand-bank in 
the sea, about fifteen miles long and three broad. The 
Yearly Meeting finished here this day was very large, the 
place considered ; being more than one thousand four 
hundred, principally professors of truth, at meeting, and 
about four hundred out at sea fishing for whales. A con- 
vincement there was formerly amongst them, and a body 
of good Friends remains ; but as the richest part of the 
inhabitants embraced the principles of truth from con- 
viction, the others thought the expense of maintaining a 
priest would be too heavy for them, and have turned 
Quakers to save money ; though I hope, even amongst 
them, the power of the begetting word is in a degree at 
work, to give a surer title to the family of Christ. 

Samuel Fothergill.' " 

Martha Routh, on a visit to Friends of Nantucket in 
1194, wrote: ^'' hi the South Meeting were about two 
hundred and twenty families. We then went to the 
North, accompanied by Jethro Mitchell and Sarah Bar- 
ney, two valuable Friends in the station of Elders. In 
that meeting were about one hundred and thirteen fami- 
lies.'' 

First month, 1869. — Whole number of members of the 
Society of Friends on the Island of Nantucket, 45. Six 
of these are over eighty years of age, viz. : one is 92, two 
are 89, two 85, and one 83. 



104 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

Between tO and 80 the number is 13; between 60 and 
70, ten; between 40 and 60, twelve, and under 25 there 
are four, two of whom do not attend Friends' Meeting, 
the other two only occasionally. 

These 45 members are in 26 families, and are situated 
thus : two families of four members each, nine families of 
two members each, and the remaining nineteen are indi- 
viduals living either entirely alone, or in the family of a 
relative. 

Within about one year and a half previous to the 
above date, six aged Friends were removed by death, 
aged respectively, 90, 83, 81 and two 80. 



A DREAM OF MILDRED RATCLIFFE. 

(Related by herself, Fifth month 5th, 1840.) 

" Near my father's house in Yirginia, there was a worn- 
out field, no longer worth tilling, which w^e used to call 
' the old field.' When I was a little girl, I suppose 
about nine years old (for I sat upon the floor when I told 
my dream to my parents), I dreamed that I saw the field 
full of people, and in the middle of it there was a hole 
about as big as this room, if it were round, and from this 
hole flames of fire were ascending. After awhile I saw 
the old enemy come oat of the hole and take hold of one 
of the people and thrust him headlong into the abyss, 
and the flames boiled up on him. Then he took another 
and served in the same waj^, and so on. It was remark- 
able that he alwa3's took those nearest to him, but the 
rest of the multitude seemed to take no notice that one 
by one of their companions was taken away. 

'' After awhile, as I gazed in astonishment, I perceived 
that there was but one left beside m^^self, and that one was 



A DREAM OF MILDRED RATCLIFFE. 105 

present!}^ taken too. The old adversary looked around, 
and made directly towards me. Awfully frightened, I 
turned to run, and heard a voice distinctly say, 'As long 
as 3^ou run from him he will have no power over you.^ 

" It said ^you^ to me then, for it alwa^^s speaks to us in 
a voice we can understand. 

" The part of the old field I had to run through was a 
quagmire, and my feet sunk in, and I suffered as much 
as any mortal could suffer in a dream. About a yard 
before me a flame seemed to rise from the ground, and 
I thought, surel}^ when I get there I shall be burnt up ; 
but when I reached it, it was a yard further, and so it 
continued till I got out of the field. When I reached the 
road, which was a beautiful level piece of ground, I 
began to go faster and faster, and presently I flew and 
left the old enemy behind ; then I slackened my pace, and 
was trying to raise a song of thanksgiving in my heart 
for my deliverance, and proceeding slowly, I suddenly 
heard the same voice say : ' See where the old enemy is.' 
I cast my eye over m}^ shoulder, and there I saw the old 
adversary with both claws open, ready to grasp me. I 
sprang forward and ran, and soon I flew, and did not 
slack until I got home. I did not stop at the porch, for 
it was no place of safety, but as soon as I got within the 
door, all fear was taken away, and I turned round and 
looked the adversary in the face, and said, ' Satan, I am 
not afraid, I am in my father's house.' He dropped a 
scowl upon me and went away. 

'' Many years after, when distant from friends and in a 
lonely state, this dream was opened to my understanding. 
The people in the old field were the world ; one by one 
their companions passed to punishment, but they heeded 
it not. 

'' The toilsome travel through the quagmire, was in get- 



106 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

ting away from my people, the Baptists. The clean road 
was when I got among Friends, — but how was I in- 
structed, that even here the enemy would clutch us if we 
were off our guard. 

" But high praises to the good Master, we are always 
safe in our Father's house." 



JOH:Nr WOOLMAK'S FIRST SERVICE m E:NrGLA]SrD. 

John Woolman wrote in his Journal : 

" On the 8th day of the Sixth month, lit 2, we landed 
at London, and I went straightway to the Yearly Meet- 
ing of ministers and elders, which had been gathered, I 
suppose, about half an hour. 

'' In this meeting m}^ mind was humbly contrite.'' 

His certificate was presented and read, when some one 
remarked, '' That perhaps the dedication of the Friend 
might be accepted, and he might feel easy to return to 
his native land." This caused no unkind feeling in John 
Woolman, but conscious that the spirit of the prophets 
is subject to the prophets, he was humbled and deeply 
affected, and his tears flowed freely. 

Then he rose and meekly stated that he did not feel 
any release from his prospect, but could not travel in 
Truth's service without the unity of his Friends, and 
that, while this was withheld, he should not be easy to 
be at any cost to them ; that he was acquainted with the 
trades of a tailor and a shoemaker, and he hoped while 
the impediment continued to be felt. Friends would be 
kindly willing to employ him in such business as he w^as 
capable of, that he might not be chargeable to any. 

A season of silence ensued, during which tears flowed 
freely from many eyes. After a time, John Woolman, 



DIVINE PROTECTION. 107 

in the pure openings of truth, spoke a few words in min- 
istry, and the spirit of his Blessed Master bore witness to 
his gift. Friends were favored with true discernment, 
all obstruction was removed, and the flow of unit}^ (first 
expressed by the Friend who had before spoken his 
doubts), became '' as a river to swim in." 



A MEMORABLE I:^STA:N'CE OF DIYINE GUIDANCE 
AJSTD PEOTECTIO::^. 

The following account of some extraordinarj^ circum- 
stances, which attended James Dickinson and Jane 
Fearnon, both of Cumberland, when on a religious visit 
to Scotland, in the early part of their labor in the Gospel, 
was related by themselves (when each was about eighty 
3^ears of age), to Sarah Taylor, when she was about 
eighteen years old ; the one assisting the other in recol- 
lecting the circumstances as they related them to her. 

It was in the borders, or some part of that nation, 
they were travelling with a person they had procured for 
a guide, to a town they proposed to reach that night, 
which, being a very long stage, and the rains heavy, 
Jane growing exceedingly fatigued, wished much to have 
taken up short of the town, if a suitable place had 
offered. Their guide assured them there was none, but 
being exceedingly wet and weary, and coming up to a 
good-looking house, James rode up to it, and asked if 
they could have lodging and necessarj^ accommodations. 
They were told they could, when they determined to 
stop there, which the guide appeared very averse to, but 
finding they would alight, he bade them farewell, saying 
they had no further need of him ; but evidentlj^left them 
with regret, having remonstrated strongly against their 



108 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

calling there before they went up to the house, but did 
not choose to speak in the hearing of the family. 

On their alighting, they were shown into a room with 
a fire in it, which opened into the kitchen, or common 
room, where the familj^ dwelt. Their horses were taken 
care of, their wet things put to dry, and they were, ap- 
parentl}", likely to be pretty comfortably accommodated. 
A posset was made for them, and a cold meat pie brought 
for their suppers ; but on their first sitting down in the 
room, they both grew very uneasy ; which, however, 
(not knowing how the other felt) each determined to 
keep to themselves ; till at length Jane said that her 
apprehensions were so great, and her opinion of the 
family so bad, she fully believed the pie to be made of 
human flesh ; which, however, James Dickinson thought 
was scared}^ the case, saying he ate of it and thought it 
good. As they sat, Jane observed three very ill-looking 
men come in, and in a low voice, tell the landlady they 
had good horses; she answered, "A^^e, and they have 
bags too.'' James's uneasiness increasing, his mind be- 
came closely engaged to seek for the cause, and for 
Divine counsel how to move ; and under this exercise 
was favored to believe, if they kept close to that, and 
closely attended to its pointings, they should be pre- 
served, and w^ay made for their escape ; on which he 
inquired about their lodgings, saying they had to write, 
and should want candles, and proposed to retire soon. 
They were shown into a chamber on the side of a 
yard, with two beds in it, without any bolt to the door ; 
but observing a form or bench in the room, tried, and 
found by placing one end against the door, it would just 
wedge in between it and one of the beds. On their be- 
ing thus shut into the room, Jane sat down on one of the 
beds, and manifested her distress by wringing her hands, 



DIVINE PROTECTION. 109 

and saying she believed they never should go alive out of 
that house. On which James sat down by her and told 
her to be still ; that he had been under equal distress of 
mind from their first sitting down in the house, but under 
that exercise, and seeking for best help, his mind had 
been favored by that which never had deceived him, to 
believe, if they carefull}^ minded its pointings, they should 
be directed how to escape. On which the}^ sat in perfect 
stillness for some considerable time, attentively waiting 
for best direction ; when at last, James told Jane the 
time for them to flee for their lives was then come ; and 
having, on their first coming into the room, observed a 
door opposite to that they came in at, and on opening it, 
found it led to a pair of stone stairs, on the outside of 
the house next the road, and believing that was the way 
for them to get oflf, he bade Jane put off her shoes, as he 
also did, and softly opened that door ; when they per- 
ceived by a light through a chink, between the first stone 
and the house, a woman sharpening a large knife. Going 
softl}^ down the steps and on the road, till out of hear- 
ing of the house, they then went as quick as they possi- 
bly could, James desiring Jane to run, and taking her 
arm to assist her in getting forward. 

After going about a quarter or half a mile from the 
house, under heavj^ rain, they discovered a sort of hovel, 
or cot, where they tried to rest themselves, there being 
some hay or straw left for the cattle, but found, by the 
painful impression renewed on their minds, this was not 
safe; then, notwithstanding their excessive weariness, 
and Jane being ready to sink with discouragement, 
James urged the necessity of exerting themselves, un- 
der the firm hope that they should be preserved ; and 
they went forward as fast as they could till they came to 
the side of water, the course of which they followed to a 

10 



110 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

bridge, over which they attempted to pass, but felt re- 
strained when they were upon it. On which James said 
that was not their way; so they turned and went forward, 
keeping down the course of the water, which, when they 
had proceeded about half a mile farther, increasing greatly 
in breadth, James stopped, and told Jane they must cross 
at that place ; w^hich exceedingly alarmed her ; having 
given way to so much discouragement, she could scarcely 
lay hold of hope that they should not totally sink under 
their present situation, and she told James she appre- 
hended if they went into the water they should be 
drowned. But he endeavored to cheer her, reminding 
her of the evidence he had of their preservation, if they 
kept a steady e3^e to best direction, which he believed 
had led them thus far, and that their way was through 
the water at that place, and he believed they should get 
safely to the other side. Whereupon, with the help of 
his arm, she ventured, and they passed safely through ; 
w^alkiug some distance they came to a sand-bank ; here 
sitting down, James said to Jane, " I am not yet easy, 
we must go farther.^' Upon which she replied, '' Well, 
I must go by thy faith ; I know not what to do." Going 
a little farther, they found another sand-bank, in which 
was a cavity, where they sat down. After they had been 
there a little while, James said, '^ I am now easy, believe 
we are perfectly safe, and feel in my heart a song of 
thanksgiving and praise." Jane replied, ''I am so far 
from that, I cannot so much as say, the Lord have mercy 
upon us." When they had been there about half an hour, 
they heard the noise of people on the opposite side of 
the river; upon which James, finding Jane alarmed, and 
thence fearing they should be discovered, softly said to 
her, " Our lives depend upon our silence." Then atten- 
tively hearkening, they heard them frequently say, '' Seek 



DIVINE PROTECTION* 111 

'em, Keeper,'' and believed they were the men the}^ saw 
at the house, accompanied by a dog; that the dog, refus- 
ing to go over the bridge, had followed the scent of their 
feet along the river side to the place they had crossed 
from; when, stopping, the people again repeatedly cried, 
" Seek 'em, Keeper," which they not only heard, but saw 
the people with a lantern. They also heard one of them 
say, they had there crossed the river; upon which an- 
other replied, ''That's impossible, unless the devil took 
them over, for the river is brink full." After wearying 
themselves a considerable time in the search, they went 
away, and James Dickinson and Jane Fearnon saw them 
no more. When da3dight appeared, they saw a man on 
a high hill at some distance, looking about him every 
way. They continued quiet in this retreat until some 
time after sunrise, when, upon taking a view of their 
situation, they discovered that under the first sand-bank, 
whence they removed, they might have been seen from 
the other side of the river, and that the place they con- 
tinued in shaded them from being seen from the opposite 
side, which they had been insensible of, as they could 
not make the observation the night before. Upon their 
considering what they should do to recover their horses, 
saddle-bags, &c., James said, ''I incline to return to the 
house." But Jane proposed their going to a town, in 
order to procure assistance to go with them to the house; 
to which James replied, the town from which assistance 
was likely to be obtained was about ten miles distant; 
that they were strangers, and had nothing to do with 
them. Jane still hesitating, he said, ''I still incline to 
return to the house, fully believing our horses, clothes, 
&c., will be ready for us, without our being asked a ques- 
tion, and the people we saw last night we shall see no 
more." Jane said, ''I think I dare not go back." James 



112 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

said, "Thou mayest, Jane, safely, for I have seen it in 
that which never failed me.'' Upon which they returned 
to the house, and found their horses standing in the 
stable saddled, and their saddle-bags upon them, their 
clothes dried, and laid ready to put on, and saw no per- 
son but an old woman sitting in a nook by the fireside, 
whom they did not remember seeing the night before. 
They asked her what they had to pay, discharged it, and 
proceeded on their journey. 

Some time afterwards James Dickinson, travelling the 
same way in Truth's service, passed the place where the 
house had stood, but found it was pulled down and totally 
destroyed ; and on coming to the town they had thought 
to have gone to, when they stopped there on account of 
the heavy rain, as before related, he inquired what was 
become of the people, and the cause of the house being 
in ruins ; when he was told that some time after Jane 
and he were there, some travellers who were observed to 
go there to lodge were missing, and it having been long 
under a very bad name, and the people strongly sus- 
pected of murdering many who had gone there, the 
neighborhood with general consent beset the house, tak- 
ing out the people, and searching the house and its 
environs, found the bodies of the above mentioned, with 
many others in dilferent states of decay, who had evi- 
dently been murdered, and I think some parts of their 
bodies wanting, with a great quantity of clothes supposed 
to belong to them ; on which the people were tried, and 
I think five of them executed, and the house rased to the 
ground. 

Sarah Taylor, who received the foregoing narrative 
from James Dickinson and Jane Eearnon, was at the 
house of Lindley Murra}^, near York, during the time of 
the autumn Quarterly Meeting in 1790, when the above 



MARY DYER. 113 

account being read to her, she confirmed the same, being 
then about seventy-four years of age. 



plai:n^ deess, etc. 

OBSERVATIONS OF AN AMERICAN ENVOY. 

After transacting some business with a member of the 
Society of Friends in London, he said, " I admire your 
Society; the principle contains all of Christianity I have 
any idea of; but I am sorrj^ to see that some of you are 
losing 3'our badge, and I do not see how you can retain 
your principles and forego your little peculiarities, your 
marks of self-denial and difference from the spirit of the 
world. You are lights; the world should come to you, 
and not you go to the world. You may gather them, 
but they will scatter you." 

MAEY DYER. 

(Copy of a letter written by ^Slary Dyer the day before her expected execution. 
The original is on file among the Massachusetts Records.) 

The superscription is as follows, viz. : 
"Mary Dyer's letter to the Court, presented by her 
Sonne, and read in open Court, 26th 8 mo. (Oct.) 1659." 

The Letter. 

'' from marie dire to ye Generall court this present 26th 
of the 8th month '59, assembled in ye towne of boston, 
in New Ingland, greeting of grace, merc}^, peace to every 
soul yt doth well: tribulation, anguish, and wrath to all 
yt doth evill. 

'' Whereas it is said by many of you yt I am guilty of 



114 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY- FIVE. 

mine own death by my coming, as you cal it, voluntarily 
to boston ; I therefore declare unto every one that hath 
an ear to hear ; yt in ye fear, peace & love of God I 
came, & in wel doing did & still doth commit my soul as 
to a faithful Creator, who for this very end hath pre- 
served my life untill now through man^^ trialls & tempta- 
tions, having held out his royall sceptre unto mee, by 
which I have accesse into his presence & have found such 
favour in his sight as to offer up my life for the truth and 
people's sake's, whom the enimie hath moved you again 
without a cause, to make such laws, as by him is intended 
utterly to root out & keep back from among you ye holy 
people & seed, which ye Lord hath blessed forever, 
called by ye children of darkness (cursed quakers) for 
whom the Lord is rising to plead with all such as shal 
touch his anointed, or doe his prophets any harm, there- 
fore in the bowels of love & compassion I beseech you 
to repeal al such laws as tend to this purpose & let the 
truth and Servants of God have fre passage among you, 
for verily ye enimie that hath done this cannot in any 
measure countervail ye gread damage yt will fal upon 
you, if you continue to keep such laws. Woe is me for 
you. Was there ever ye like laws heard of, made by 
such as profess Christ come in tlie flesh ? Have such no 
other weapons to fight with against spiritual wickedness 
as you call it ? Of whom take you counsel ? Search 
with the light of Christ in you, & that will show you of 
whom as it hath done me, & many more, who hath been 
disobedient, & deceived, as you now are, which secret 
light as 3'Ou come into, & obeying what's made manifest 
to you therein, you will not repent that you were kept 
from shedding blood, though 'twere b}^ a woman : Its not 
my own life I seek for (I chuse rather to suffer with ye 
people of God than to enjoy the pleasures of Egypt) but 



MARY DYER. 115 

ye life of ye seed, which I know ye Lord hath blessed, 
& therefore seeks ye enimie thus vehemently ye life 
thereof to destroy as in al ages he did. Oh ! hearken 
not unto him I beseech you for ye seed's sake, which is 
one in al, & deare in ye sight of God, which they that 
touch, toucheth ye apple of his e3^e & cannot escape his 
wrath, of which I having felt cannot but persuade al men 
yt I have to doe withal, especially you, who nameth ye 
name of Christ, to depart from such iniquity as blood- 
shed even of ye saints of ye most High. I have no self 
end 3^e Lord knows, for, if m^^ life were freelj^ granted 
by you, it would not be accepted soe long as I shal da3dy 
see or hear the sufferings of my dear brethren & sisters 
(with whom my life is bound up) as 1 have this 2 years, 
& now its likely to increase even unto death for noe evil 
doing but being among you ; therefore let my request 
have as much acceptance with you (if you be Christians) 
as Esther had with Ahasuerus, whose relation is short of 
that, that is betwixt Christians, & my request is ye same 
that hers was to ye king, who said, not that he had mad 
a law, & it was dishonorable for him to revoke it, but 
when he understood that those people were so prised by 
her & so nearly concerned her, as in words of truth & 
soberness 1 have here expressed j'ou, that these are the 
same to mee, you know by the history what he did for 
her, I therefore leave these lines with you, appealing to 
ye faithful & true witness of God ; which is one in al 
coiiscienses, before whom wee must all appeare, with 
whom I do & shal eternally rest in everlasting joy & 
peace. Whether you will hear or forbear, I am clear of 
your blood, but you cannot be so of ours, but wil be 
charged therewith by ye Lord, before whom al your 
coverings wil be too narrow for you ; but to me to live is 
Christ, & to die is gain though I had not your 48 hours 



116 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

warning for the preparation of the cruel, & in your 
esteme, cursed death of mee, Marie dire. Know this also 
yt, if through ye enmity you shall declare yourselves 
worse than ye heathen king & confirme your law, though 
'twere but by taking the life of one of us, yt 3^e Lord 
will overthrow you & your laws by his righteous judg- 
ment & plagues powered justly on you, who now, whilst 
you are warned hereof & tenderly sought unto avoid ye 
one by removing ye other, wil not hear nor obey the 
Lord nor his servants, yet will he send more of his 
servants among you, soe your end shal be frustrated yt 
think to restrain them you call qual^ers from cominge 
amonge you by anything you can do to them, yea verily 
he hath a seed that suffereth among you, for whom we 
have suffered al this while, & yt yet suffereth, whom ye 
Lord of ye harvest wil send forth more laborers to gather 
(out of ye mouths of devourers of al sorts) into his fold, 
when he will lead them into fresh pastures, even the paths 
of righteousness for his name's sake. Oh, let none of 
you put this good day far from you, which verily in ye 
light of ye Lord I see approaching to many in and about 
Boston, which is the bitterest, darkest professing place 
& soe to continue soe long as you don yt I ever heard of. 
O let the time past suffice of such a profession as brings 
forth such fruits as these laws are. In love & in the 
spirit of meekness I again beseech you, for I have no 
enmit}^ to the persons of any, but 3^ou shall know that 
God is not mocked, but what you sow yt shal you reap 
from him, yt will render to every one according to their 
deeds don in his body, whether good or evil, even so be 
it saith Marie dire, who also desireth yt ye people called 
quakers in prison, that's in ye town of Boston at ye time 
of our execution, may accompanie us to 3-e place & see 
ye bodyes buried.'' 



EDWARD WANTON. 117 



EDWAED WAKT0:N'. 

(The following was furnished to the editors of a late paper, by " a descendant of 

Edward Wanton.") 

Edward Wanton was a conspicuous merchant of Boston 
at the period when the persecution of Friends was most 
virulent. At the time of the execution of Mary Dyer, in 
Boston, he attended at the execution in an official ca- 
pacity, whether as sheriff or captain of the train-band, I 
never ascertained. 

He was very deeply touched by her language and de- 
portment, and on returning to the house he removed his 
sword, saying to his mother, he " should never wear it 
again, as they had been killing the people of the Lord." 
He suffered great mental anguish for a long time, but at 
length he found pea^je, and became a member and minis- 
ter in the Society of Friends. He underwent severe per- 
secutions in Boston, which cannot be detailed within the 
limits of this brief article ; but he at length removed to 
the tow^n of Scituate, and was instrumental in gathering 
a large and flourishing Friends' meeting in that place, 
chiefly from those who had been members of the Congre- 
gational Church. This was quite sufficient to bring upon 
him the hatred of the minister of the place, who lost no 
opportunity of persecuting him, and he was made the 
constant object of reviling, both in the pulpit and in social 
life. On the occasion of his second marriage, which was 
celebrated after the manner of the Society of Friends, the 
priest instituted a suit against him, and obtained a very 
large verdict, in a court which was deepl}^ prejudiced. 
This fine he refused to paj^, and it was collected from him 
by distraint, which caused a loss of property to at least 
double the amount of the tine. I have a manuscript ac- 



118 QLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

count of these fines written with his own hand. He built 
the meeting-house at Scituate with his own money, and 
by will left means to keep it in repair. 

He attended the Yearly Meeting at Newport as a rep- 
resentative in his eighty-fifth year, and its records show 
that he was in its service on all the most important com- 
mittees that were appointed that year. He was a bold 
and eloquent minister, and had great power of convincing 
men's reason, by clear and glowing exhibitions of the 
truth. He was not only instrumental in gathering a large 
meeting in Scituate, but scA^eral neighboring meetings 
were greatly aided by his ministerial labors, as well as by 
counsel and advice. 

His sons, John and Joseph, removed to Rhode Island, 
and both became very eminent ministers. The former 
was for many years Governor of the colony. He was a 
man of excellent education and addi;ess, and his ministry 
was attended by large crowds of people as long as he 
lived. He was summoned to England in the reign of 
Queen Anne, and became a great favorite with her. She 
offered to confer upon him the honor of Knighthood, 
which he declined, but she did give him a coat of arras, 
and a magnificent silver gilt bowl as a memorial of her 
esteem. 

No less than seven of Edward Wanton's descendants 
filled the gubernatorial chair of Rhode Island, and most 
of them were worthy and consistent members of the So- 
ciety of Friends. 

JOHN SALKELD. 

John Salkeld, of Delaware, though an eccentric man, 
was a favored minister. John Churchman, in his early 
days, took an opportunity to labor with him for allowing 



PRESERVATION OF A FAMILY OF FRIENDS. 119 

his eccentricities to carry him sometimes too far. The 
aged minister listened to all his young friend had to say, 
and then quietly answered, '' Why John, I have overcome 
ten times as much as thou ever had to contend with.'' 



EEMAEKABLE PEESEEYATIOK OF A FAMILY 

OF FEIENDS. 

The following account of the remarkable preservation 
of a family of Friends, residing about two miles from 
Dublin, during the rebellion in the year 1798, in which 
more than one hundred thousand lives were lost, was 
narrated b}'' the mother of the family to Richard Jordan, 
of America, when on a religious visit to Europe, and 
related by him to some friends at Baltimore, in 1825. He 
observed : '' Such is my confidence in the integrity of the 
Friend, that I have no more doubt of the facts than if 
I had myself witnessed them." 

''The family were dwelling at a beautiful villa, hand- 
somely" situated and highly cultivated ; and whilst assem- 
bled one afternoon around their peaceful and happy fire- 
side, they were rudely assailed by a party of insurgents, 
who surrounded the house, and forced an entrance. The 
leader of this band of ruffians informed the family that 
they must prepare for death, as he was determined to 
murder every member of the family as heretics, and burn 
their house and property. As they were proceeding to 
fulfil this murderous intention, a secret compunction of 
mind on the part of the officer arrested their progress ; 
and after a short delay, he told them he had concluded to 
give them twenty-four hours' respite, during which they 
might consider his proposals ; that they would return at 
the same time, four o'clock the succeeding day, and if 



120 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

they were then willing to change their religion, and be- 
come Roman Catholics, their lives and property should 
be saved ; but if not, every individual should be murdered, 
and the property rased to the ground. They then with- 
drew. In this hour of extremity, their faith and con- 
stancy were put to a severe test, and the intermediate 
period was passed under feelings which can better be 
conceived than described. 

" The following was their regular meeting day, and the 
mother proposed to her husband that the family should 
rise earlj^, partake of a light repast, and every member of 
it repair to the meeting-place, there to mingle once more 
in social worship with their beloved friends, before the 
hour of their suffering arrived. Her husband, however, 
deemed such a proceeding unwise, and they were brought 
into deep mental conflict, with fervent desires that they 
might be rightly guided in the struggle between religious 
duty on the one hand, and apprehensions for the safety 
of their beloved family on the other. 

'^ They assembled the family to deliberate on the course 
they should pursue in this painful exigency, with a degree 
of humble confidence that Divine direction would be af- 
forded them ; and after a time of solemn retirement of 
mind, they spread the subject before their children. The 
excellent and amiable mother still pressed the propriety 
of going to meeting ; but the father could not conceal 
his fears that it would lead to greater suffering. Their 
eldest son, with Christian fortitude and magnanimity, 
encouraged his parents to go, saying: 'Father, rejoice 
that we are found worthy to suffer;' a remark which 
greatly affected his parents, and so strengthened their 
minds, that they at once concluded to make the attempt. 

" In the morning, they accordingly proceeded to their 
place of worship, taking the public highway instead of 



PRESERVATION OF A FAMILY OF FRIENDS. 121 

going through the fields, to avoid the armed insurgents, 
as was usually done, and through Divine protection they 
reached the meeting in safety. 

" They sat with their friends in awful reverence, wait- 
ing on the great Preserver of men, and though their 
minds were deeply affected with the gloomy prospect be- 
fore them, yet a degree of living faith was renewed in 
their hearts, under which they were strengthened to cast 
themselves entirely on the protection of the Almighty. 
The meeting closed, and their minds were comforted and 
refreshed in having thus fulfilled what they considered a 
religious duty. But now a new trial commenced, in con- 
sidering whether it would be right to return home into 
the power of their enemies, of whom they were now clear, 
or to pursue an opposite course, and seek a place of 
safety for themselves and children. Their faith, how- 
ever, bore them up in this time of deep proving, and 
after solidly weighing the matter they believed it their 
duty to return home. The struggle, notwithstanding, 
was severe, for nature must necessarily feel keenly when 
our lives, and those whom we hold most dear, are at 
stake ; but as they journe3^ed onward with their hearts 
lifted up in prayer to the Lord, the mother's mind was 
powerfully impressed by the recollection of the 14th 
verse of the 60th chapter of Isaiah, viz.: 'The sons also 
of them that aflflicted thee shall come bending unto thee, 
and all the}' that despised thee shall bow themselves 
down at the soles of th}^ feet.' The recollection of this 
passage of the Holy Scriptures w^as accompanied by such 
an assurance of Divine regard and protection being ex- 
tended to them that she clapped her hands for jo}^, and 
expressed to her husband and children the confidence she 
felt that they should be cared for. 

" On reaching home they all assembled and sat down in 



122 aLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

silent, reverent waiting on that God who careth for all 
His humble and obedient children, and thus awaited the 
impending stroke. 

" The clock struck four, but their persecutors came not. 
The King's troops had landed from England, and marched 
rapidl^^ into the neighborhood, while the insurgents were 
flying in every direction to escape their pursuit. In less 
than two weeks the same party came to the house of the 
Friend, and on their knees implored the protection of 
the family to hide them from their pursuers, and save 
them from the destruction which they had so lately 
threatened to inflict on thevi. 

" Thus they were relieved from their painful state of 
suspense, and had cause to be humbly and deeply thank- 
ful for the merciful preservation extended to them, con- 
firming their faith in the all-sufficiency of their gracious 
Redeemer." 

The substance of the foregoing narrative was related 
by Richard Jordan in a First-day morning meeting in 
Baltimore, at a time when many deluded persons in our 
Society were endeavoring to undervalue the H0I3" Scrip- 
tures ; and R. Jordan took occasion to show not only the 
kind protecting care of a gracious Providence over his 
faithful children, and the divine support vouchsafed 
through the immediate operations of the Holy Spirit, but 
also that He was pleased to make the Scriptures of Truth 
a source of unspeakable consolation to his believing fol- 
lowers, opening and sealing them on their minds in a 
manner beyond the reach or comprehension of the wise 
and prudent of this world ; concluding with these words, 
"Friends, I am not prepared to give up the Hol}^ Scrip- 
tures.'' (See '' The Friend," vol. viii, p. 215, and vol. 
xvii, p. 139.) 



MARY GRIFFIN. 123 



MAEY GRIFFIlSr. 



Mary Griffin, of Nine Partners, New York, was the 
daughter of a zealous Presbyterian. Her quickness of 
perception was apparent about her sixth }■ ear, when, being 
present while her parents were conversing about their 
minister's salary, the mother remarked, " We must not 
starve the Gospel ;" Mary replied, '' That is impossible, 
mother, for it is the power of God unto salvation, to every 
one that believeth." Being allowed by her parents to 
frequent balls, she was once engaged in dancing, when 
her mind was solemnl}^ impressed with the sin of thus 
misspending her time, and she immediately took her seat. 
On being asked the cause, she honestl}^ told it, and refused 
ever again to partake in like amusements, thus bearing 
a testimony to the principles of a society of which she 
had never heard. 

When quite }• oung she married among her own people, 
and continued a member with them, till hearing that one 
called a Quaker had appointed a meeting in the neigh- 
borhood, her mind was drawn to attend it ; but her hus- 
band being away, and only two little children in the 
family, she was at a loss how to manage, as the meeting 
was to be in the evening. But she put her children to 
bed, and when they were asleep, set out for the meeting, 
secretly saying, " I have faith to believe that kind Provi- 
dence will care for them.'' She had to travel on foot four 
miles, and cross a stream, from which the bridge had 
been carried away ; but she waded through the strong 
current, and arrived at the meeting; during which the 
following passage was so frequently presented, that she 
believed it right to express it. '' Though thou exalt thy- 
self as the eagle, and though thou set thy nest among the 
stars, thence will I bring thee down, saith the Lord." 



124 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

After sitting down, she felt great peace ; returned home 
rejoicing, and found her children safe. At that time she 
wore a scarlet cloak, edged with far. 

It afterward appeared there was a man in that meeting 
about to engage in conduct injurious to his friends, who 
was so overcome by her communication, that he made a 
public acknowledgment thereof, and afterward became a 
member. 

She soon after joined herself to Friends, and became 
an approved minister in her 20th year. It appeared she 
had not reflected on the inconsistency of her dress until 
a Friend remarked to her, '' Laces proceed from pride, 
pride from sin, and sin leads down lower than the grave.'^ 
She immediately laid aside all superfluities. 

When about ninety-five years of age, she paid a satis- 
factory visit to some of the meetings in Nine Partners 
and Stamford Quarters, and in her one hundredth 3^ear 
visited the families of Nine Partners Meeting, and had 
several public meetings, in which she was greatly favored. 
Her natural faculties were reduced to a state of second 
childhood, while the spiritual part grew brighter and 
brighter. At one of these public meetings, a Baptist 
preacher was present, who afterward called at her lodg- 
ings to converse with her on the subject of inspiration, in 
which he did not believe. Being shown into her room, 
he found her sitting upon the floor, amused with play- 
things. He immediately withdrew, saying, all his inqui- 
ries were answered, as she was herself a memorable proof 
of Divine Inspiration. 

Near the close of her life, she thus addressed her chil- 
dren and grandchildren, "Fear the Lord above all things, 
and keep to your religious meetings.'^ She died 20th of 
Twelfth month, 1810, aged upward of one hundred years, 
a minister four score. 



COMFORT COLLINS. 125 



COMFOET COLLIIS^S. 

MATTHEW franklin's ACCOUNT OF A VISIT TO COMFORT 
COLLINS, IN THE YEAR 1812. 

" We called to see Comfort Collins, aged one hundred 
and one years, and eight months. A more instructive 
and precious opportunity I never remember. All her 
faculties have in a manner fled, except religious sensi- 
bility. She has no recollection of ever having had a hus- 
band or children, houses or lands ; nor does she remem- 
ber her nearest friend. Yet her sense of Divine good, 
and the religious savour of her mind are unabated. 

" We staid with her about an hour, during which time 
she was continually engaged in praising her Maker ; ex- 
horting us to love the Lord and lay up treasure in 
Heaven ; often saying, ' One hour in the Lord's presence is 
worth a thousand elsewhere ; I know it, friends, I know 
it ;' and her voice would settle away with that kind of 
melody which dear old Mary Griffin used to make. Then, 
after being still a minute or two, would again lift up her 
voice with angelic sweetness, praising the Lord, and ex- 
horting us to love and fear Him. 

'' Looking round upon us, she would saj^, 'Though you 
are strangers to me, dear friends, 3^et I love you all ; I 
love all them that love the Lord, blessed be his holy 
name.' She held Elizabeth Purington and m3'self by the 
hand, nearl}- all the time we staid; the whole company 
were in tears. 

'' The remembrance of this opportunity, I hope will 
never be effaced from my mind, for I think Mary Griffin 
and Comfort Collins are the most remarkable instances 
of the reality and rectitude of the principles of light and 

11 



126 GLEANINaS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

life I ever met with, next to the influences thereof on 
my own soul. 

'' About the 3^ear 1760, Comfort Collins embarked with 
Sarah Barney, of Nantucket, to pay a religious visit to 
Friends in Europe. When they had been awhile at sea, 
she pleasantly told her companion, ' she believed the will 
vjas taken for the deed.' ' How is that ?' said the Friend, 
' we are now on the way.' 'No matter,' said Comfort, 
' keep this to thyself, and we shall see.' Soon after, the 
vessel sprang a leak, the captain thought it best to return, 
and they were set on shore." 



ANECDOTE OF JOHN FLETCHER, OF MADELEY. 

John Fletcher, the pious vicar of Madeley, near Coal- 
brookdale, in England, on one occasion, on ascending his 
pulpit with the intention of preaching a sermon which 
he had previously prepared for the purpose, suddenly 
found that he could not remember any part of the ser- 
mon, nor even the text. He feared he would have to 
come down without saying anything, but gathering his 
mind into calm collectedness, he remembered the circum- 
stance of the three men of old who were cast into the 
fiery furnace, with the divine preservation they witnessed, 
and he concluded to say something in regard to it. In 
doing so he found, as he afterwards related, '' such an 
extraordinary assistance from God, and such a singular 
enlargement of heart," that he supposed there must be 
some peculiar cause for it. He therefore desired that if 
any of the congregation had met with anything particu- 
lar, they would acquaint him with it. 

Three days afterwards, a female of his congregation 
called on him and gave him the following account, viz. : 



JOHN FLETCHER. 127 

"Mrs. K. had been for some time much concerned about 
her soul. She attended the church at all opportunities, and 
spent much time in private prayer. At this her husband 
(who was a butcher) was exceedingly enraged, and threat- 
ened severely what he would do if she did not leave off 
going to John Fletcher's church — yea, if she dared to go 
an}^ more to any religious meeting whatever. When she 
told him she could not in conscience refrain from going, 
he grew quite outrageous, and swore dreadfully that if she 
went any more he would cut her throat as soon as she 
came home. This made her cry mightily to the Lord to 
support her in the trying hour. She determined to go on 
in her duty and leave the event to Him. Last Sunda}'^," 
continued the informant, ''after manj^ struggles with the 
devil and her own heart, she came down stairs ready for 
church. Her husband asked her whether she was re- 
solved to go thither; she told him she was. 'Well then,' 
said he, 'I shall not, as I intended, cut your throat ; but 
I will heat the oven, and throw 3^ou into it the moment 
you come home.' Notwithstanding this threat, whicli he 
enforced with many bitter oaths, she went, praying all 
tlie way that God would strengthen her to suffer what- 
ever might befall her. While 3'ou were speaking of the 
three Hebrews whom Nebuchadnezzar cast into the burn- 
ing fiery furnace, she found it all belonged to her, and 
God applied everj^ word to her heart. She felt her whole 
soul so filled with His love that she hastened home, fully 
determined to give herself to whatever the Lord pleased, 
nothing doubting but that either He would take her to 
heaven if He suffered her to be burned to death, or that 
He would in some way deliver her, even as He did His 
three servants that trusted in him. But when she opened 
the door, to her astonishment and comfort she found her 
husband's wrath abated, and soon had reason to believe 



128 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

that he was under a concern for the salvation of his own 
soul." 

In a few days her husband joined the congregation 
himself, and John Fletcher adds, that he now understood 
why his sermon had been taken from him. — Bejison^s Life 
of Fletcher. 



LETTER FEOM JOH]^ THOEP TO RICHARD 
REYNOLDS. 

Manchester, Twelfth month 25th, 1804. 

My dear Friend : I will relate to thee, at this time, 
a short anecdote which I had from James Thornton, of 
America, one of the first of the first rank, who have vis- 
ited us from that quarter of the world. He said, when 
Anthony Benezet was in his last illness and very near 
his death, he went to see him. Anthony had been long 
distinguished as a lover and benefactor of mankind; but 
when James came into the room, he said he never had 
been more deeply impressed with a sense of spiritual 
poverty, than he was at that time; and as he sat under 
these feelings, a view opened, how little all the merits of 
good works can avail, or be relied on at such a time, or 
an3^thing short of our Hol}^ Redeemer. He took leave 
of him under these impressions, and the good man died, 
I think, ver}^ soon after, and James attended his burial ; 
but, he said, when he entered into the house, it felt to 
him as if it were divinely perfumed ; something so like 
the opening of heaven, and a sense of the Divine Pres- 
ence, as he had at no other time experienced. What a 
striking conformity between the death of this good man 
and that of his blessed Master ! I thought this little 
story deserved to be remembered. 



DAVID SANDS. 129 

With the salutation of love, in which I wish us both a 
continual increase, I am thy affectionate friend, 

John Thorp. 



KEMAEKABLE OCCUEREXCES IX THE EXPEEI- 
EXCE OF DAYID SANDS. 

In the year 1840, our ancient friend, Joseph Hoag, spent part of the winter 
with his son, J. D. H., in New Brighton, Penna., and part with our friend Sam- 
uel Armstrong, near Fairfield, Columbiana County, Ohio, at whose house he re- 
lated the following narratives ; also, at D. K.'s house [then] in New Brighton, 
Penna. (as near as the latter can remember); which he had received from David 
Sands himself, at a time when they were relating to one another the wonderful 
dealings of God's mercy. 

Salem, Ohio, 1872. D. K. 

" At one time, when David Sands was on a religious 
visit in England, he felt a concern to go to Scotland, but 
was discouraged on account of lack of money to defray 
the expense of the journey, having only one pound ster- 
ling. While walking in the street of a city, feeling con- 
cerned as to how he should be enabled to undertake the 
journey, he came to an auction room, and felt like step- 
ping in. The auctioneer held out two silver tea-pots of 
a very ancient date, and asked for an offer. David bid 
one pound, the auctioneer cried 'Sold^^ and handed them 
to him ; he paid for them and walked on, wondering to 
himself what he was to do with the tea-pots; but having 
bought them by direction of a feeling made known in his 
heart, he had faith to believe there was a design in it for 
his good ; which soon proved true, for he had not walked 
far before a person accosted him and inquired whether 
the tea-pots were for sale, adding, ' I have come a great 
wa}" to bu}^ them, but was a little too late. Those tea- 
pots belonged to my predecessors, and I would like to 



ISO GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

have them, if you will be so kind as to sell them to me.' 
David replied, ' I have no use for them, thou canst have 
them ; give me what thou thinks they are worth to thee.' 
The stranger said, 'lam very willing to oive you five 
pounds.' The answer was, ' Thou canst have them.' 
So the stranger gave him the money and went his way. 

" David was thankful that he had been faithful to the 
divine impression, and his faith was much strengthened 
to go on his waj^, and watch closely his feelings, to know 
what the Lord might require at his hand in Scotland, 
' seeing that He will provide for those who are faithful in 
this our day, as He hath done in former days.' 

"David Sands, after his visit to Scotland (of which 
many interesting incidents are recorded) returned to 
England, much worn in mind and body, as well as in his 
apparel. The Lord Jesus, whom he served, directed him 
to a town where a very rich member of the Society of 
Friends lived. It was made known to him that he was to 
go to that rich man's house and rest there, and wait for 
further direction. So he went in faith, and calling at 
the door, a servant came and asked what he wanted. 
David said he wanted to see the owner of the house. 
The servant said, ' I will go and see whether it is suita- 
ble to come before my master.' He offered David a chair 
in the hall, and went towards the parlor, bat David fol- 
lowed closely, and as the servant spoke, entered and said, 
' I am a pilgrim of the Lord Jesus Christ; I am much 
worn, and the Lord has directed me here, saying, "I have 
blessed him much, go and partake of the blessing with a 
little rest." ' The servant stepped back, and the master 
of the house, being much offended at his bold entrance 
with such language, went out and told his wife what had 
occurred. She, being of a more Christian disposition 
than her husband, said, 'Please be not hasty in turning 



DAVID SANDS. 131 

him out of the house, but let us first see who and what he 
is.' She went into the parlor, and asked David some 
questions as to whether he was a Friend, &c., whereupon 
he showed her his certificates. She then returned to her 
husband, and pleading that the Friend should remain 
with them, he at length consented that he might stay 
in the kitchen with the servants. David gladly accepted 
the situation and went into the kitchen, where he found 
among the servants, some who were far more of true 
Friends than their master and mistress. And they soon 
observed that David was a true Friend, and had much 
experience in the Christian warfare, and they enjoyed his 
company very much. The mistress of the house, hear- 
ing him conversing with the servants, soon perceived 
that the stranger was a very intelligent Friend, and was 
interested in his company among her servants. She then 
began to plead with her husband to allow him to come 
into their parlor; to v/hich he at length consented, pro- 
vided she would give him a better suit of clothes (as his 
old ones were much worn). This she soon did, and he 
was invited into the parlor. He at first refused to go, 
saying, he was well suited with his compau}^, and the 
servants were not well pleased at losing so interesting a 
companion. 

'' David walked to meeting with his cane, while tlie 
professed Friends (the master and mistress) rode in a 
fine coach, with a finely dressed driver, and a servant be- 
hind. But David, in his humble way, was much favored 
in their meetings, and was made instrumental in awaken- 
ing fresh life therein. 

'^ These Friends with whom David made his home, had 
four children, two sons and two daughters, who were all 
in Paris to learn the refinements of the world, and the 
time had now come for their return home. There were 



132 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

great preparations made for their reception, and in great 
pomp and show they came, and were so received by the 
family. David received them in his plain. Christian way, 
which attracted their attention, it being such a contrast 
to what they had been accustomed to ; and they also 
soon began to feel an attachment to him. 

"After some time, one morning at the breakfast table, 
David asked whether there were not some Friends living 
in the north part of the country ; he was informed that 
there were some meeting-houses belonging to the Society, 
but no Friends were living there. He said he felt a re- 
ligious concern to visit that part, and his Master directed 
him to look to him (the master of the house) for an outfit 
and company. But the answer was, 'I am not fit to go 
on such errands.' In a few mornings after, David again 
mentioned his concern to them ; then the friend said he 
could not go himself, but if he would, David might take 
his eldest son and daughter with him, having no thought 
that his children would go, or that David would accept 
them; but they expressed a willingness to go. Then the 
father asked whether he would not be ashamed to take 
them, as they made no appearance of Friends in dress 
or manners. But David was willing they should go with 
him, and was then told he might take one of the car- 
riages; but he felt no freedom to do so, painted and 
gilded as they were, and needing an extra person to sit 
outside and drive. A more suitable one was furnished, 
in which the driver could sit inside. Being now provided 
with an outfit, and himself being driver, David set out 
with his gay young companions. 

" On the way, from time to time, he felt engaged to 
speak to them of the Truth as it is in Jesus, and in ac- 
cordance with the Holy Scriptures. They felt more and 
more interested in the principles held by Friends, and 



DAVID SANDS. 133 

became convinced thereof in this journey. The truth 
was also received b}^ the people with great convincement, 
so that four of the old meeting-houses were repaired, 
and meetino;s as^ain established. 

"The children, on their return, told their parents of the 
wonderful grace of God to the people, and that they were 
also convinced thereof, and could no longer wear their 
fashionable clothing, but must dress plainly. 

'' The father, being a fashionable man, was much affected 
by the convincement of his children, though at first op- 
posed to it, but their faithfulness to conviction made him 
at last say, 'If they would dress so, they would have to 
be good Quakers, and endeavor to walk consistently with 
their profession, or else they might leave home, for he 
would have no hypocrites about him.' So they changed 
their dress, their general conduct being also changed, to 
the honor of Truth. 

" After resting some weeks, David felt a concern to visit 
another part of England, which he made known to the 
family as before, saying that he looked to some of them 
to accompany him in this journey also. The father said, 
'Thou canst take the same children again.' David re- 
plied he was satisfied to do so, if they felt it their duty 
to go; but they did not believe it right for them to go, at 
which their father greatly wondered, and could not com- 
prehend it. But David mentioning his concern from 
time to time, the father at length said, that if it could 
not be otherwise, he might take his younger children, 
and see wiiether he could make Quakers of them. David 
answered, ' I cannot, but with the Lord all things are 
possible.' So they being willing to go, they set out in 
the same carriage, and the Lord blessed the journey to 
the convincement of these children and man}^ others ; so 
that they repaired three old meeting-houses, and estab- 

12 



134 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

lislied meetings to the honor of Truth* The children in 
this case, as the other two had done, furnished all the 
money, from their own private purses, for repairing the 
houses. 

" On their return home they also informed their parents 
of the wonderful works of God, and that they must 
change their dress and conduct, according to the convic- 
tion of Truth in their hearts. This brought a great con- 
cern upon their parents, so that they were broken in 
heart and became of a contrite spirit, and through sub- 
mission to the operation of the grace of God, became 
changed themselves, so as to be consistent members of 
the Society of Friends." 



A BKIEF GE:N^EAL0GY OF EDWAED FOULKE ; 

WITH AN ACCOUNT OF HIS FAMILY, AND THEIR REMOVAL 

FROM GREAT BRITAIN TO PENNSYLVANIA. 

(Written by himself, originally in ancient British or Welsh.) 

"I, Edward Foulke, was the son of Foulke Thomas, 
the son of Evan, the son of Robert, the son of David 
Lloyd, the son of David, the son of Evan Yaughan, the 
son of Griffith, the son of Madock, the son of Jerworth, 
the son of Madock, the son of Ririd Blaidd of the Poole, 
who was Lor.d of Penllyn, one of the northern divisions 
of Wales. 

'^ My mother's name was Lowry, the daughter of Edward, 
the son of David, the son of Ellis, the son of Robert, of 
the Parish of Llanver, in Merionethshire. 

"I was born on the 13th dav of the Fifth month, Anno 
Domini, 1651, and when arrived to mature age, I married 
Eleanor, the daughter of Hugh, the son of Cadwallader, 
the son of Rees of the Parish of Spyter, in Derbyshire. 



EDWARD FOULKE. 135 

Her mother's name was Gwen, the daughter of Ellis, the 
son of William, the son of Hugh, the son of Thomas, 
the son of David, the son of Madock, the son of Evan, 
the son of Cott, the son of Evan, the son of Griffith, the 
son of Madock, the son of Enion, the son of Meredith, 
of Carvadock ; and was born in the same parish and 
shire with her husband. 

" I had, by my said wife, nine children, to wit, four sons 
and five daughters ; whose names were as followeth, viz., 
Thomas, Hugh, Cadwallader, and Evan ; Gwen, Grace, 
Jane, Catharine, and Margaret. 

" We lived at a place called Coodyfoel ; a farm belong- 
ing to Roger Price, Esq., of Rhewlass, in Merionethshire 
aforesaid. But in process of time, I had an inclination 
to remove thence with my family, to the province of 
Pennsylvania, and in order thereto, we set out on the 3d 
day of Second^ month (April), Annoque Domini, 1698, 
and came in two days to Liverpool; where, with divers 
others, who intended to go the voyage, we took shipping 
the nth of the same month, on board the 'Robert and 
Elizabeth ;' and the next day set sail for Ireland, where 
we arrived and stayed, until the 1st of the Third month 
(May), and thence again sailed for Pennsylvania, and 
were about eleven weeks at sea ; and the sore distemper 
of the bloody flux broke out in the vessel, of which died 
five and forty persons in our passage. The distemper 
was so mortal, that two or three corpses were cast over 
every day while it lasted. But through the favor and 
mercy of Divine Providence^ I, with my wife and nine 
children, escaped that sore mortalit}", and arrived safe 
at Philadelphia, about the ITth of Fifth month (July); 
where we w^ere kindly received and entertained by our 
Friends and old acquaintances, until I purchased a tract 
of about seven hundred acres of land, about sixteen miles 



136 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY- FIVE. 

from Philadelphia, on a part of which I settled. And 
divers others of our company, who came over sea to- 
gether, settled near me about the same time ; which was 
the beginning of November, 1698, aforesaid; and the 
township was named Gwjmedd, or North Wales. 

"This account was written the 14th of Eleventh month 
(January), A. D. 1702, by 

"Edward Foulke.'' 

This document enables man^^of his descendants at the 
jDresent day to trace the names of their ancestors to 
twenty-one generations inclusive, and allowing three 
generations to a hundred years, the oldest named ancestor 
(Meredith) must have lived about the middle of the 
twelfth century; and Ririd-Blaidd a little after. This 
reckoning corresponds nearly with the history of England, 
and with a large folio volume on Heraldry, in which the 
Lord Ririd-Blaidd's name is mentioned, and his coat of 
arms, being three wolves' heads torn from their bodies 
without the aid of a sword or weapon. This badge, it is 
believed, was attached to his character on account of some 
military exploit of valor he performed in that rude and 
barbarous age. 

There is a tradition concerning Edward and Eleanor 
Foulke, before their emigration to Pennsylvania, in 
substance as follows : Edward Foulke, with other sub- 
jects of the Prince of Wales, attended Fealty, as he 
was required by law to do, and learn certain military 
tactics. While one of his relations was engaged in fenc- 
ing, and defending himself from a club in the hand of his 
antagonist, he had the cap of his knee struck off. While 
the wounded man was suffering exquisite agony, his 
antagonist was glorying in the victory, and their seconds 
parleying about the merits and demerits of the contest. 



EDWARD FOULKE/ 137 

Edward Foulke's heart was grieved by their unfeeling 
indifference to the suffering of his relative ; and he was 
led to believe* it was not the will or design of the just, 
wise, and munificent Creator for one man (the Prince of 
Wales) to exercise such dominion over his fellow-men, as 
to require them to meet and perform such acts of cruelty 
towards each other; and while he was calmly considering 
the matter, it occurred clearly to his understanding that 
the Divine Will was, he should remove with his family 
and settle in the Province of Pennsylvania. This was 
.very unexpected, and the idea of parting with his friends 
and relatives in Wales, to settle in the wilderness of 
America, among Indians and wild beasts, was very far 
from his inclination ; but the more he pondered on it, the 
more serious the impression became. For awhile he en- 
tertained a hope that it might pass awa}^, but as the 
subject continued steadily before him, he at length opened 
it to his wife, in a serious and weighty manner. Unex- 
pectedl}^ to him, she regarded it as an intimation or 
revelation of the Divine Will to him for their good, and 
said to him, "He that revealed this to thee, can bless a 
very little in America to us, and can blast a great deal in 
our native land," and cautioned him against reasoning it 
away. 

Being accounted an excellent singer, large companies 
were in the habit of collecting at his house on First days 
to hear him sing; with this he became uneasj^, finding 
the company of no advantage to him, nor he to them ; as 
their time was spent in vain and trifling amusements; on 
mentioning his uneasiness to his wife, he found she too 
had become ver}^ much dissatisfied with the practice, and' 
also with some of the company. They then concluded 
that a better way to spend the first day of the week, 
would be to read the Scriptures ; believing too, that the 



138 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

unprofitable part of the company would soon become 
weary and leave them, while their truest friends and best 
neighbors would adhere to them the more closely. This 
practice proved of great advantage, for when the company 
collected, and Edward sometimes indulged in merriment 
beyond the bounds of Christian gravity, his wife would 
say, under a deep concern, "Put away, and get the Bible." 
This call he carefully attended to, and it had the desired 
effect, for the most valuable company adhered to them, 
though the greater part deserted them. Their meeting 
and reading the Scriptures on the afternoon of the first 
da}^ of the week continued for some time, and their 
numbers increased. 

At length his wife reminded him that they were richly 
rewarded for their obedience to the Spirit that had shown 
him clearly the iniquity of performing Fealty, and the 
vanity and evil of singing and idle amusements, and that 
it now remained for them to follow closely the leadings 
of the Divine Spirit to the Province of Pennsylvania. 
They then conversed on the subject more freely with their 
friends, and some of their Meeting came over with them, 
as before related, being a part of the ''divers others" he 
mentions in the foregoing account. Some had come be- 
fore him, and others soon followed, so that the Township 
ofGwynedd (or North Wales), was originally settled by 
those emigrants from Merionethshire in the Principality 
of Wales, called by the same name. 

The following account was left b}^ Jesse Foulke (de- 
ceased), of Gwynedd (great-grandson of Edward) : 

''In the latter end of the year 1698, Gwynedd Town- 
ship was purchased of William Penn, by William Jones 
and Thomas Evans, and distributed among the original 
settlers, who were William Jones, Thomas Evans, Robert 



EDWARD FOULKE. 139 

Evans, Owen Evans, Cadwallader Evans, Hugh Griffith, 
Edward Foulke, Robert Jones, John Hugh, and John 
Humphrey ; only the two last mentioned belonged to the 
Society of Friends, the others being church people. The 
said John Hugh and John Hum^^hrey early began to hold 
religious meetings in one or other of their houses, on 
the first day of the week. The other inhabitants, belong- 
ing to the Church of England, used to hold a meeting at 
the house of Robert Evans ; and Cadwallader Evans was 
in the practice of taking his Bible with him to the meet- 
ing, and as they had no officiating minister, used to read 
a chapter or two in the Scriptures. 

" But (as he himself related) as he was going to his 
brother Robert's to the meeting as usual, when he came 
to the road leading down to the lower end of the town- 
ship, where John Hugh and John Humphrey held their 
meeting, it seemed as though a voice said to his spiritual 
ear, 'Go down and see how the Quakers do;' wiiich 
circumstance he mentioned at the close of their then 
meeting; and they agreed, one and all, to go to the 
Quaker's meeting the next First da}^, and were so well 
satisfied with their mode and manner of worship, that 
they never met again in their usual form of church 
worship. Their meeting now increasing, they continued 
to hold it at the houses of John Hugh and John 
Humphrey, for some time; but in the year 1706, they 
built a meeting-house near where the present one stands, 
and held meeting therein, by the consent of Haverford 
Monthly Meeting ; nnto which they at first joined them- 
selves, but their numbers increasing, and their house 
being small, a new meeting-house was built in the year 
ni2, and on the 19th of Ninth month, the same year, 
the first meeting for worship was held therein. 

"In the year 1714, it was considered that, as a great 



140 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

many settlers were coming in, and a young generation 
arising, and the Monthly Meeting so remote, that it was 
inconvenient to attend the same ; it was, therefore, agreed 
by Gwynedd and Plymouth jointly, to apply to Haverford 
Monthly Meeting for liberty to hold a Monthly Meeting 
among themselves, which, after a time of solid considera- 
tion, was moved to Philadelphia Quarterly Meeting, and 
approved of by that meeting ; and the first Monthly Meet- 
ing held at Gw3niedd, on the 22d of the Twelfth month, 
1714-15." 

The house built in 1712 was taken down in 1823, and a 
new and enlarged one erected on and near the same place. 

Jane Foulke, daughter of William and Hannah Foulke 
(great-granddaughter of Edward), was married Twelfth 
month, 1757, to George Maris, of Gwynedd, grandfather 
of the present writer. He resided very near to the meet- 
ing-house, and they continued to occupy the same place, 
each living to old age. 

The following address of Edward Foulke was made to 
his children during his last illness, and, it is believed, but 
a very short time before his death : 

" My dear Children : There has been, for a consider- 
able time, something on my mind to sa}^ to you, hj way 
of advice, before I return to dust, and resign my soul to 
Him who gave it, though I have found some difficulty in 
delivering my thoughts in writing. My first admonition 
to 3'ou is, that you fear the Lord, and depart from evil 
all the days of 3^our life. Secondly, as brothers and sisters, 
I beseech you to love one another, and your neighbors 
too. If anj^ of your neighbors injure you in word or deed, 
bear it with patience and humility. It is more pleasing 
in the sight of God, and of good men, to forgive injuries, 
than to revenge them. Rather pra}' for them than wish 



EDWARD FOULKE. 141 

them any evil, lest that text in Scripture, ' An e^^e for an 
eye, and a tooth for a tooth,' come in your minds when 
you leave this world, and you be found wanting. With- 
out doubt, he that is thoughtless and negligent all his 
daj^s about the welfare of his soul, will some day or other, 
in the midst of his extremity, call on the rocks and moun- 
tains to cover him from the vengeance of an offended God. 

" M}^ dear children, accustom not yourselves to vain 
talking, which the Scriptures declare against. It has 
been hurtful to me in mj- 3^outh, and stopped me in virtue. 
The temptations of this world are very powerful, as Job 
said, by experience. Be w^atchful over your evening con- 
versation. Let pious thoughts possess your souls the 
moment before you close your eyes to sleep. And if you 
do that, it will be easier for you to find yourselves in the 
morning, in a meek, humble posture before God, who 
preserved you from evil, and will create peace and calm- 
ness of mind, with a blessing on your outward affairs ; as 
we read of Isaac, whose pious meditations in the field 
were rewarded with outward and inward blessings. 

" I desire j^ou not to reject the least offer of good which 
may arise in your minds, as if it was what could be ob- 
tained at pleasure. Give up in speedy obedience to God, 
who begot that divine emotion in 3^our heart. For a man's 
continuance here is very doubtful. It often happens that 
death comes without warning, yet we must go, ready or 
not. Where the tree falls, there it must lie. I knew a 
man in the old country, who went to bed with his wife at 
night, and died before morning, unknown to her. Such 
things are designed, I believe, as a w^arning to us, that 
we ma}^ arm ourselves against the terrors of such a day. 
And of such as die after that manner, we have little to 
saj^, except that they died and were buried, leaving the 
rest among the mysteries of the Almight3\ Hence let us 



142 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY- FIVE. 

view our own weakness, and judge one another with 
charity. 

''M}^ dear children, that you knew the sorrows I feel 
now in my old age, for want of being more careful and 
circumspect in my youth, although I did nothing that 
brought shame on myself, or grief on my parents. And 
yet there were among the loose, inconsiderate youth, too 
many things which they called innocent, without consider- 
ing all the while they were building on the sand. And I 
was often drawn into vain mirth with them. There is a vast 
ditference between the sentences to be delivered to those 
who build on the rock, and those who build on the sand. 
Our Saviour said of the latter, their fall shall be great. 

''Let me entreat of you, m}^ dear children, assume not 
the appearance of religion without a real possession of 
it in your hearts. Our dear Saviour compared such to a 
sepulchre, white without, but within full of dead men's 
bones. Yet I have better hopes of you, though I mention 
this. 

'• I have known, at times, something pressing on me to 
read good books, or to go aside in private to pray, which 
I neglected, taking my own liberty otherwa3^s. Then in- 
difference and hardness would prevail, which deprived me 
of those good inclinations for a considerable time after. 

" I have also to tell you of my own experience concern- 
ing attending week-day meetings. Whenever I suffered 
trifling occasions, or my outward affairs and business (if 
not very urgent) to interrupt my going, a cool reflection 
and serious view made me look upon it as a loss, or an 
injury done to the better part of myself: and generally the 
business done that day did not answer my expectations 
of it in the mornino:. 

" One thing more comes into my mind, by searching my- 
self; which is, it would have been better for me if I had 



EDWARD FOULKE. 143 

been more careful in my sitting with my familj'- at meals, 
with a sober countenance, because children and servants 
have their eyes and observation on those who have the 
command and government of them. It has a mighty in- 
fluence on the minds and manners of youth. So, my 
dear children, some of you may get some advantage from 
this. If you consider with attention this innocent sim- 
plicity of life and manners I have been speaking of, you 
need not fear but that God will protect 3'ou in safety from 
the snares of the devil, and the storms of this inconsid- 
erate world. By diligence, also, you shall have victory 
over the deceitfulness of riches. I fear there are too 
many of this age who suffer themselves to be carried 
away with this torrent of corruption. And not onl}^ such 
as content themselves, as it were, in the outer porch, but 
also such as make greater pretences than those, even they 
who were looked upon as pillars in the work have, I fear, 
turned their backs upon it. I la}'' these things close to 
you, that 3"ou may be careful and diligent whilst, you 
have time left, lest by degrees indifference drop upon 
3^ou under the disguise of an easy mind, and you forget 
that it is only he who holds out to the end shall be saved. 

" And as for your father and mother, our time has 
almost come to an end. We have lived together about 
fifty 3^ears ; and now in our old age the Lord is as good 
and as gracious as ever he was. He gives us a comfort- 
able living now in the close of our days. We have a fresh 
occasion to acknowledo^e his benevolence and aboundino^ 
goodness to us. 

" Now, I can with peace of mind, I think, conclude, with 
hopes for 3^our prayers for us in the most needful time, 
especially on a dying pillow, and our time in this world 
come to an end, that we may have a gentle passage to 
eternal rest. 



144 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

" Now I conclude in the words of the prophet Jere- 
miah, 31st chapter, 2Ist verse; 

" ' Set thee up way-marks, make thee high heaps, set 
thine heart towards the highway, even the way which 
thou wentest: turn again, virgin of Israel, turn again 
to these thy cities.' '' 



JOSEPH LUKEKS. 

Joseph Lukens was born in Horsham, near Philadel- 
phia, in the Ninth month, 1729. He possessed good 
natural abilities, and was of a sober life and conversa- 
tion. In the 22d 3^ear of his age he married Elizabeth 
Spencer, and in the increasing duties of the domestic 
circle, was a loving husband and a tender parent. In the 
26th 3^ear of his age he believed himself called to the 
ministry of the gospel, and his appearances in that line 
were acceptable to Friends. Careful to keep within his 
gift, for several years his public ministrations were not 
frequent. Yet, through dedication of heart, he witnessed 
an increase in love to the cause of Truth, and a growth 
in knowledge and experience. With the unity of his 
Friends he travelled on this continent, proving himself 
an able minister of the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ, 
both at home and abroad, dividing the word aright in the 
assemblies of the people and in the families of Friends. 
He was often emploj-ed in visiting the sick, and being 
ever read}^ to assist and comfort his neighbors, he was 
much beloved. 

On the 16th of Ninth month, 1184, he went to Philar 
delphia to attend the Meeting for Sufferings, and it being 
the fifth day of the week, was at the High Street Meet- 
ing. Here he appeared in a lively and acceptable testi» 



ELEANOR Mccarty. 145 

moDj. Towards the close of the meeting Sarah Harrison 
stood up and said, "There was one present who would 
not have the opportunity of again thus meeting w-ith 
Friends. This made it necessary for such to improve 
the present, and prepare for a final change." She con- 
cluded by affectionately bidding the individual ''farewell 
in the Lord." This communication was delivered with 
great solemnity, and Joseph felt in himself that he was 
the individual referred to. He attended the sitting of 
the Meeting for Sufferings, and that evening w^ent out of 
the city on his way towards home. The next day, before 
he reached his residence, he was taken unwell. Fully 
satisfied of the truth of the intimation given him, he en- 
deavored to prepare for his close. His sickness increas- 
ing, in a w^eighty solemn manner he took a last farewell 
of his wife and children, and passed away from this 
scene of conflict on the 2Tth of Ninth month, 1784, aged 
55 years. 



ELEANOK McCAETY. 

Eleanor McCarty, of Elklands, Pennsylvania, w\as a 
much-esteemed minister in the Society of Friends. In 
the early periods of her religious life she underwent 
great hardships and sacrifices. Living five or six miles 
from her religious meeting, she generally went on foot, 
frequently leading a little child and carrying another in 
her arms. On one of these occasions a heavy snow-storm 
overtook her, and her discouragements were so great 
that she thought it could not be required of her to make 
so great a sacrifice again ; but when the next meeting- 
day came she again persevered, and in that meeting was 
her first appearance in the ministry; and continuing 



146 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

faithful therein, she became a clear and convincing min- 
ister of the gospel. 

At one time a company of militia had been assembled 
by their captain, to muster on a ground some miles from 
her home, and feeling her mind strongly drawn to visit 
the place, and take an opportunity with the captain, she 
believed that if she was faithful, a friend and neighbor 
named Hogeland would be willing to accompany her. 
Accordingly she dressed herself and walked towards the 
house of the friend, whom, to her great surprise, she 
found standing in the door with cloak and bonnet, wait- 
ing her arrival, though she was totally ignorant of her 
concern through any outward channels. This great con- 
firmation increased her faith, and the}^ reached the ground 
together. Eleanor had a powerful opportunity with the 
men. The captain laid down his arms, never more to 
resume them, and afterwards became a member of the 
Society of Friends. 

Eleanor McCarty deceased 20th of Fourth month, 1844, 
in the 63d year of her age. 



THE VALUE OF PEEMOKITIONS. 

(From the " Home Monthly.") 

One of our railroad engineers some years since was 
running an express train of ten well-filled cars. It was 
in the night, and a very dark night too. His train was 
behind time, and he was putting the engine to the utmost 
speed of which it was capable, in order to reach a certain 
point at the proper hour. He was running on a straight 
and level track, and at this unusual velocity, when a con- 
viction struck him that he must stop. "A something 
seemed to tell me," he said, " that to go ahead was dan- 
gerous, and that I must stop if I would save my life. I 



THE VALUE OF PREMONITIONS. 147 

looked back at my train, and it was all right. I strained 
my eyes and peered into the darkness, and could see no 
signal of danger or anything betokening danger, and 
there in the daytime I could have seen five miles. I lis- 
tened to the working of my engine, tried the water, 
looked at the scales, and all was right: I tried to laugh 
myself out of what I then considered a childish fear; . . . 
but it grew stronger in its hold upon me. I thought of 
the ridicule I would have heaped upon me if I did stop, 
but it was all of no avail. The conviction — for by this 
time it had ripened into a conviction — that I must stop, 
grew stronger, and I resolved to stop. I shut off, blew 
the whistle for brakes accordingly. I came to a dead 
halt, got off, and went ahead a little without saying any- 
thing to anybod}^ what was the matter. I had a lamp in 
my hand, and had gone about sixty feet, when I saw 
what convinced me that premonitions are sometimes pos- 
sible. I dropped the lantern from my nerveless grasp, 
and sat down on the track utterly unable to stand.'' 

He goes on to tell us that there he found some one had 
drawn a spike which had long fastened a switch-rail, and 
opened a switch which had alwa3^s been kept locked, and 
which led on to a track — only about one hundred and 
fifty feet long — which terminated in a stone quarry. 
'^ Here it was, wide open, and had I not obeyed my pre- 
monitory warning — call it what you will — I should have 
run into it, and at the end of the track, only about ten 
rods long, my heavy engine and train, moving at the rate 
of forty-five miles an hour, would have come into colli- 
sion with a solid wall of rock eio^hteen feet hio^h! The 
consequences, had I done so, can neither be imagined 
nor described, but they could by no possibility have been 
otherwise than horribly fatal." 

No one can here doubt the fact of a special interposi- 



148 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

tion of God, by which, from a calamity most terrific, 
hundreds of lives were wonderfully spared. 



AKECDOTE OF A MIISriSTEK OF BEEG. 

John George Holey, a minister of Berg, in "Wurtem- 
burg, sent out his servant with a six-horse team to fetch 
grain. During the night, about the time when the team 
was expected to return, he was suddenly seized by such 
a restlessness that he arose and^went to meet his servant, 
notwithstanding his wife's repeated assurance that he 
need not apprehend any danger. He found his man 
asleep on horseback, and the team, owing to the bad 
road, so far turned aside, that it would, a few moments 
later, have reached a spot where all would inevitably 
have been precipitated into a deep abyss. 



A DKEAM OF SARAH HARRISOK'S. 

In her dream, she thought she was sitting in the parlor, 
on a low chair, with a white apron on ; when a tall person 
came into the room, went up to her, and threw something 
heav}^ in her lap. She asked him what it was. He told 
her it was a soul in hell, but to touch it with her finger 
and she would find life in it ; she did so, and it moved 
over her lap. She was greatly agitated, when her husband 
awakened her, and inquired what ailed her. She said 
she could not tell him, but expected shortly to be called 
to some awful scene. 

Whitehead Humphreys, an unbelieving character, was 
taken ill ; his friends thought it his last sickness, and felt 
much anxiety on account of his situation, particularly 



SARAH HARRISON. 149 

his brother, who queried with him whether he would not 
like to see some friends ; but he seemed to be insensible 
to his situation, and declined seeing any, until within a 
few days of his death, when he consented to see Arthur 
Howell, but he had gone out of town ; the messenger 
then proceeded to Samuel Emlen's, who was also from 
home. On his return he met with Sarah Harrison and 
William Savery, to whom he mentioned the situation of 
Whitehead, and requested them to go with him, which 
they accordingl}' did. Soon after their arrival, the other 
friends, who had been sent for, came, and they proceeded 
to his chamber, where they found him in a very unsettled 
and restless state, and full of conversation. After sitting 
with him awhile, Samuel said, ''Whitehead! Whitehead! 
there is no time to be idle ; thou art in an awful state !'^ 
He then lay still for some time, and dear Sarah Harrison, 
who was under an awful concern, was drawn forth to 
supplicate for him ; after which he seemed more com- 
posed. On the friends leaving the room, Sarah Harrison 
told Whitehead's sister-in-law of the foregoing dream, 
and the awful impression that, from the time of her 
dream, and when she first sat down in his chamber, had 
attended her mind^ but her feelings had become more 
comfortable, and she thought it might be truly said, " he 
was called at the eleventh hour." 

He said to the friends these emphatic words : " Tell it 
at the corners of the streets, proclaim it in the assem- 
blies of the people, that I have been endeavoring to 
believe a lie.'' 



13 



150 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

JOSEPH HEMPHILL AKD A MEMBEE OF THE 
SOCIETY OF FRIENDS. 

A member of the Society of Friends, who resided in 
a village not far from Philadelphia, daring a considerable 
portion of the meridian of his life, evinced little dispo- 
sition to conform to the testimonies and principles of 
his profession. Among other things, he was Yery neg- 
ligent in the attendance of religious meetings, and on 
one occasion refused to withdraw a few minutes from his 
worldly business to sit with his family during the time 
of a religious visit paid them by two ministering Friends. 
His son, having been favored with a powerful visitation 
of Divine love, yielded in measure thereto, and became 
diligent in going to meetings, walking to the one they 
belonged to, though at the distance of several miles. 
One day, Joseph Hemphill, a distinguished lawyer of 
Philadelphia, afterward a judge and member of Con- 
gress, came into the store, and not seeing the young 
man, inquired of the father where he was. " Gone to 
meeting," said the father, with a sneer. "Gone to meet- 
ing!" replied Joseph. ''The more to his credit; for he 
gets no help from his father, mother, or sister ! I tell 
y^ou what, if I was in your place, if I could not live up 
to the principles I professed, I would request to be re- 
leased from membership." 

This unexpected rebuke had a powerful effect on the 
man to whom it was addressed. He said he had never 
had such a sermon preached to him. He could not get 
from under the weight of it, and soon found himself 
most easy to be diligent in his religious duties. At the 
time of his death he was a prominent member of the 
meeting he belonged to, and was thought to have become 
an humble-minded Christian. 



WILLIAM aiFFORD. 151 



ANECDOTE. WILLIAM GIFFORD. 

On a certain time (the date is uncertain, probably 
between 1835 and 1839), ''Nantucket harbor was fro- 
zen over nearly all winter. All the coal in store had 
been burned, and there was much suffering for want of 
fuel. Even the fences had been torn down and burned 
to eke out the scanty supply of wood. To the great 
delight of the townspeople the ice broke up one fine 
morning, and a schooner with coal was seen approaching. 
There was much excitement, and before the craft was 
moored a coal-dealer boarded her, and eagerly addressed 
the honest Quaker skipper. Captain Gifford. ' Wall, 
cap'en,' said he, '^^ouVe about hit it this cruise; I guess 
I'll hev to take y'ur hull cargo. Spose you'll want 
more'en the usual seven dollars a ton. Wall, I like to 
do the square thing by a friend, and I'll give you twelve 
dollars a ton for it.' 'Friend,' said Captain Gifford, 
' thee can have a ton of my coal, if thee likes, for eight 
dollars, but only one ton ; all may have a chance.' Just 
then one of the richest men in the place joined them, 
saying : ' I want ten tons of your coal at your own 
price ; name it. I have suffered enough for once.' He 
received the same answer, and so did all — pne ton for 
each family, and eight dollars the price for each ton. 
No love of gain, no solicitation, no regard for individ- 
uals, could move honest Captain Gifford. Who would 
do thus now?" 

A Friend residing on Nantucket was queried with, re- 
specting the authenticity of the foregoing; he answered: 
" I knew William Gifford well, — think he was owner as 
well as captain of the vessel, and well remember the cir- 



152 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 

cumstance. I heard him say at the time nearly these 
words, ' Now I have got to act conscience.' He was a 
man of good and quick natural parts, resided in West 
Falmouth, and sailed from here (Nantucket) mostly up 
the Hudson River. In the spring of 1871 there was no 
coal to be bought on the island, and in that of 1872 no 
cord-wood. I have known it to be so that there was no 
corn to be bought. (I speak of the dealers in these com- 
modities.) There is a spirit of accommodation in the 
inhabitants, which leads to a willingness to lend ; and 
actual suffering, I think, would lead to prompt attention." 



A PRESENTIMENT. 

The Scranton (Penna.) Bepuhlican tells the following 
sad story of one of the victims of the late Pittston, 
Penna., coal mine disaster : 

''William James expired about 3 o'clock on the after- 
noon of the Tuesday following the catastrophe, and was 
the last added to the list of those upon whom the death 
angel laid his hand in that awful havoc. He was a 
Welshman, and had been in this country about seven 
months. On the morning of the dreadful day in ques- 
tion he had taken his breakfast, and his wife had made 
ready his dinner, and set the pail beside him. For some 
time he sat wrapped in thought, his arms folded, his eyes 
fixed vacantly upon the stove, and a deep melancholy 
apparently brooding over him. He was aroused from his 
reverie by his wife telling him that his dinner was ready, 
and that he would be late, as the bell had rung. He 
started to his feet, and gazing upon her for a moment 
with a look full of tenderness and significance, said to 
her, ' If I should not come back alive, would you be in 



SHREWDNESS. 153 

such a hurry getting me out?' The wife answered 
' No,' but remarked that if he was going at all it was 
time he was gone. He lifted his pail without saying a 
word, and after kissing his wife, kissed his four little 
children, who were sitting playing on the doorstep. 
When he had got about fifty yards from his home, he re- 
turned again, and kissed his wife and children once more 
with great fervency. 

" His wife noticed that he was the victim of gloomy 
forebodings, and as he turned away, she was about to 
entreat him not to go to work if he apprehended any 
danger. But hope and courage and the necessities of 
their family, overcame her intention, and she let him go. 
She stood in the door and watched him on his way to the 
fatal pit. When at a point where he turned out of her 
sight, he paused and cast a wistful look back towards his 
home and little ones, and seeing his wife, waved with his 
hand a last adieu. He parted with his loved ones for- 



ever." 



SHEEWDjSTESS. 

" He that delivered [it] unto thee hath the greater sin." 

"I am glad,'' said Dr. Y s to the Chief of the Lit- 
tle Ottawas, " that you do not drink w^hisky. But it 
grieves me to find that your people use so much of it." 
" Ah, yes," replied the Indian, and he fixed an arch and 
impressive eye upon the Doctor, which communicated the 
reproof before he uttered it, '' We Indians use a great 
deal of whisky, but we do not make it." 



154 GLEANINGS AT SEVENTY-FIVE. 



SENSIBILITY OF AN INDIAN. 

In a certain town of Maine was once exhibited a strik- 
ing display of Indian character. One of the Kennebec 
tribe, remarkable for his orderly demeanor, received from 
the State a grant of land and settled himself in a new 
township, where several white families had previously 
settled. Although not ill-treated, the common prejudice 
against Indians prevented any sympathy with him. This 
was made manifest on the death of his only child, when 
none of his neighbors went near him to join in the obse- 
quies of burial. 

Shortly after, he called on some of the inhabitants. 
" When white man's cliild die," said he, " Indian man be 
sorry; he help bury him. When my child die, no one 
speak to me ; I make his grave alone ; I can no live 
here." He gave up his farm, dug up the body of his 
child^ and carried it with him two hundred miles, through 
the forest, to join the Canadian Indians. 



POETICAL PIECES, 



BY 



THE GLEANER. 



THE PAINTER OF SEVILLE. 

'TwAS morning in Seville, and brightly beamed 
Tiie early sunlight in one chamber there, 

Showing, where'er its glowing radiance gleamed, 
Rich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where 

Murillo, the famed painter, came to share 
With young aspirants his long-cherished art, 

To prove how vain must be the teacher's care 
Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart. 
The language of the soul, the feelings of the heart 

The pupils came, and glancing round, 

Mendez upon his canvas found. 

Not his own work of j^esterday, 

But, glowing in the morning ray, 
A sketch so rich, so pure, so bright, 

It almost seemed that there were given, 
To glow before his dazzled sight. 

Tints and expression warm from heaven. 



156 POETICAL PIECES, 

'Twas but a sketch — the Yirgin's head — 
Yet was unearthly beauty shed 
Upon the mildly beaming face ; 

The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, 
Had separate, yet blended grace ; 

A poet's brightest dream was there I 



Murillo entered, and, amazed, 

On the mysterious painting gazed ; 

" Whose work is this? speak, tell me ! he 

Who to his aid such power can call," 
Exclaimed the teacher eagerly, 

" Will yet be master of us all. 
Would I had done it ! Ferdinand ! 
Isturitz ! Mendez ! say whose hand 
Among ye all?" With half-breathed sigh, 
Each pupil answered, '' 'Twas not 1 1" 

" How came it then ?" impatiently 
Murillo cried ; '' but we shall see 
Ere long into this mystery. 
Sebastian!" 

At the summons came 

A bright-eyed slave. 
Who trembled at the stern rebuke 

His master gave ; 
For, ordered in that room to sleep. 
And faithful guard o'er all to keep, 
Murillo bade him now declare 
What rash intruder had been there ; 
And threatened, if he did not tell 
The truth at once, the dungeon cell. 



BY THE GLEANER. 157 

" Thou answerest not!" Murillo said — 
(The boy had stood in speechless fear) ; 

" Speak, or — " At last he raised his head, 
And murmured, " No one has been here." 

" 'Tis false !" — Sebastian bent his knee. 

And clasped his hands imploringly, 

And said, " I swear it! none but me !" 

" List," said his master, " I would know 
Who enters here, — there have been found 
Before, rough sketches strewn around. 

By whose bold hand, 'tis j^ours to show ; 

See that to-night strict watch you keep. 

Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep ; 

If on to-morrow morn you fail 
To answer what I ask, 

The lash shall force you, — do you hear? 
Hence ! to your daily task." 



'Twas midnight in Seville. And faintly shone 

From one small lamp, a dim uncertain ray 
Within Murillo's study : all w^ere gone. 

Who there, in pleasant tasks, or converse gay. 
Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 

'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, 
That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey. 

One bright-eyed boy was there, Murillo's little slave. 

Almost a child, that boy had seen 

Not thrice five summers ^-et ; 
But genius marked the lofty brow, 

O'er which his locks of jet 
14 



158 POETICAL PIECES, 

Profusel}'^ curled ; his cheeks' dark hue 
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through 
Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, 
To Africa and Spain allied. 

" Alas ! what fate is mine ?" he said, 

" The lash, if I refuse to tell 
Who sketched those figures ; if I do. 

Perhaps e'en more, the dungeon cell !" 
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid. 
It came 1 for soon in slumber laid. 
He slept until the dawning day 
Shed on his humble couch its ray. 

" I'll sleep no more," he cried, " and now 
Three hours of freedom I may gain 

Before my master comes, for then 
I shall be but a slave again. 

Three blessed hours of freedom ! how 
Shall I employ them ? — Ah ! e'en now 

The figure on that canvas traced. 

Must be, 3^es, it must be effaced." 

He seized a brush, — the morning light 
Gave to the head a softened glow ; 

Gazing enraptured on the sight. 
He cried, " Shall I efface it ? No ! 

That breathing lip ! that beaming eye ! 

Efface them ? I would rather die !" 

The terror of the humble slave. 

Gave place to the o'erpowering flow 

Of the high feelings Nature gave. 
Which only gifted spirits know ; 



BY THE GLEANER. 159 

He touched the brow, the lip ; it seemed 

His pencil had some magic power; 
The eye with deeper feeling beamed; 

Sebastian had forgot the hour! 
Forgot his master, and the threat 

Of punishment still hanging o'er him; 
For with each touch new beauties met, 

And mingled in the face before him. 

At length 'twas finished. Rapturously 
He gazed ; could aught more beauteous be ? 
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood, 
Then started ; horror chilled his blood ! 
His master, and the pupils all 

Were there, e'en at his side ! 
The terror-stricken slave was mute; 

Mercy would be denied, 
E'en could he ask it ; so he deemed. 
And the poor boy half lifeless seemed. 

Speechless, bewildered, for a space 
They gazed upon that perfect face. 

Each with an artist's joy ; 
At length Murillo silence broke, 
And with affected sternness spoke : 

" Who is 3''our master, boy ?" 
" You, senor !" said the trembling slave. 
" Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave 
Before that Virgin's head you drew?" 
Again he answered : " Only, you." 
" I gave you none !" Mnrillo cried. 
" But I have heard," the boy replied, 

'' What you to others said." 
"And more than heard," in kinder tone. 
The painter said, " 'tis plainly shown 

That you have profited." 



160 POETICAL PIECES 



" What (to his pupils) is his meed? 

Keward or punishment ?'' 
" Reward, reward !"' the}^ warmly cried. 

(Sebastian's ear was bent 
To catch the sounds he scarce believed, 
But with imploring look received.) 
" What shall it be V They spoke of gold, 

And of a splendid dress, 
But still unmoved Sebastian stood. 

Silent and motionless. 

" Speak !" said Murillo kindly, '' choose 

Your own reward ; what shall it be ? 
Name what you wish, I'll not refuse; 

Then speak at once, and fearlessly.'' 
" Oh ! if I dared !" Sebastian knelt. 

And feelings he could not control 
(But feared to utter even then), 

With strong emotion shook his soul. 

"Courage !" his master said, and each 
Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech, 
To soothe his overpowering dread. 
He scarcelj' heard, till some one said, 
"Sebastian, ask, you have your choice. 

Ask for your freedom.^^ At the word 
The suppliant strove to raise his voice ; 

At first but stifled sobs were heard. 
And then his prayer, breathed fervently, 
" Ohf master J make my father free P^ 

"Him and thyself! my noble boy!" 

Warmly the painter cried ; 
Raising Sebastian from his feet. 

He pressed him to his side ; 



BY THE GLEANER. 161 

"Th}^ talents rare, and filial love, 

E'en more have fairl}^ won ; 
Still be thou mine by other bonds, 

My pupil and my son !" 

Murillo knew, e'en when the words 

Of generous feeling passed his lips, 
Sebastian's talents soon must lead 

To fame, that would his own eclipse. 
And constant to his purpose still. 
He joyed to see his pupil gain. 
Beneath his care, such matchless skill. 
As made his name the pride of Spain. 
1838. 
Note. — Sebastian Gomez, better known as the Mulatto of Murillo, 
was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be 
seen exhibited in Seville, the picture he was found painting by his 
master, with a number of others. The incident related above oc- 
curred about the year 1630. 

THE DEATH-BED OF A SLAYE-TAKER. 

The kidnapper felt the awful power 

Of o'erwhelming remorse in his dying hour. 

Of agony, spurning the stern control 

That had nerved his feelings, and stained his soul 

With secret crimes ; but his conscience wrung 

Their confession, then, from his faltering tongue. 

His victims were countless ;* of one he spoke 
Who had fled from a southern tyrant's yoke, 
And a home (with his wife and children) found. 
Where freedom and plent}^ smiled around. 

^ Though a slave-taker may know how many human beings he has 
actualh^ sold into bondage, the wretched lives and broken hearts 
caused bv such sales cannot be nmnbered. 



162 POETICAL PIECES, 

" I lost," the awakened sinner said, 

As he writhed in anguish, ''the path that led 

To the river's bank ; all was dark around. 

When that dwelling of love and peace I found, 

Found welcome from all in the home of that slave ; 

They gave me food, and their bed they gave, 

Their only bed ; and he led next day 

My steps for miles, on my forward way ; 

Nor would take the reward I offered then ; 

We parted: Oh! had we ne'er met again! 

Months passed away ; then I learned that he 
Who so kindly had sheltered and guided me, 
Might be torn from his peaceful home, and sold 
To increase my store of blood-stained gold. 
I hastened once more to his happ}^ retreat. 
And welcome, most kind and sincere, did I meet ! 

How was it requited ? I acted the part 
Of a grateful friend, with a villain's art ; 
And too easily they my tale believed, 
When I said, that, for kindness there received. 
My gratitude prompted me now to come. 
And offer them all a more pleasant home ; 
That his labor there should be well repaid ; 
And they trusted each specious promise made. 

To visit that future home, his consent 
Was gained, and a social evening spent: 
How gratefully happy was each warm heart ! 
How cheerfully did he, next morning, depart ! 

We soon reached a river — ^'twas deep and wide, 
But the ice seemed firm from side to side ; 



BY THE GLEANER. 163 

It bore us awhile, as the way I led, 

Then trembled and parted beneath my tread. 

All powerless I sank ; that generous slave 

Risked his own, my guilty life to save, 

Then carried me senseless to the shore, 

Which, unaided by him, I had reached no more ; 

He rescued me ! shall I conclude the tale ?" 

The speaker^s lip turned more deathly pale. 

" Oh,, my husband !'' exclaimed his weeping wife, 

"You could not sell him who preserved your life!'' 

'' I could ! I did ! ere the close of that day, 

My deliverer was borne in chains away ; 

I assisted, with strength I owed to him. 

To rivet those chains on each quivering limb. 

Not a single word the poor victim spoke. 

But one glance he gave me ! that withering look I 

It haunts me still in the broad daylight. 

It comes with the deepest shades of night. 

Oh, now 'tis before me ! I see him there. 

With that look of agony and despair 

Which has followed me since that fatal day : 

He is come to torment me ! Oh ! take him away !" 

" Away !" he repeated with failing breath. 

And the kidnapper's eyes were closed in death. 

1837. 

FRAGMENTS. 

*' Weep not for those whose race is run, — 
Whose prize is gained, whose toil is past ; 
To them the power of grief is done. 

And misery's storm has frowned its last! 

* * * -X- * -Jt * 



164 POETICAL PIECES, 

'' But weep for those who yet remain, 

The feverish weight of life sustaining, 
The frown of scorn, the sting of pain, 
And secret anguish uncomplaining." 

T. F. H. 

Cold, cold the snow-wreath lies above 
The form, that, warmed by life and love. 

For many a year was by my side, — ■ 
And, turning from the vacant chair, 
The pillow, cold and smooth and bare, 
I feel that there is none to share 

With me, whatever may betide. 

Tet there are those that love me — thou. 
Sister ! my only sister now. 

Faithful, affectionate, and kind. 
And dear — in sorrow doubly dear. 
With heart and hand my path would cheer ; 
But still her place is vacant here, 

A changeless blank I ever find. 

Yes, there are those who love me, — who 
Through clouds and sunshine have been true. 

And well I know and prize their worth ; 
And those who now, in sorrow tried. 
Cling the more closelj^ to m^^ side, — 
Alas ! in hearts to mine allied. 

Are ties too strong that bind to earth. 



* 



That grave is green, — oh, can it be. 
Sister ! since it was made for thee. 
Almost a year has passed away ? — 



BY THE GLEANER. 165 

It seems a wintry da}^ and night, 
Of darkening clouds and fitful light, 
With flowers frost-stricken when most bright, — 
Thy last hour seems but yesterday ! 

Still, still I hear the gentle tone 
From thy heart speaking to my own. 

Oh ! that to me there may be given 
Like thine, a spirit purified 
(E'en though by suffering deeply tried). 
Following the one unerring Guide, 

Who led thee, blessed one ! to Heaven. 



IVe stood beside another grave. 

O'er which the grass and wild flowers wave 

(In their fifth summer blossoming): 
My young and lovely cousin, — thou, 
With thy bright smile, but pensive brow. 
Art brought before me even now. 

By memory's faithful picturing. 

Beloved one ! I did not see 

Thy suffering, but I wept for thee. 

Mourned for the sorrow in thy home : — 
Yet ever comes the soothing thought, 
"To hearts like thine, by feeling taught. 
This world must be with sorrow fraught ;" 

Tliou art luhere sorrow cannot come ! 

By thine another grave was made ; 
I stood beside it, while they laid 

Within its confines one beloved. 
And bound to us by kindred's tie. 



166 POETICAL PIECES, 

But dearer for the sympathy, 
The kindness and sincerity, 

So highly prized, so often proved. 

She, too, is gone, and with her gone 
A light that on my pathway shone. 

Even from early childhood's day. 
But calmly, usefully, she passed 
Through a long life, and at the last. 
No cloud was o'er the future cast. 

To dim Hope's spirit-cheering ray. 

^ jjf jj? ^ ^ ^ 

The grave — the grave ! — (earth's trials past). 
In it our forms shall rest at last, 

It may be soon, and suddenly. 
But never b}^ tlie happiest, 
(However long, however blessed 
Their path through life), was e'er possessed 

Aught earthly but must change or die. 

Yet there's a "pearl " of priceless worth, 
That may be gained while yet on earth ; 

My precious sister ! it was thine. 
This world was once too bright to me, 
I view it now too gloomily ; 
Oh that to hear unmurmuringly. 
With humbled spirit trusting Thee, 

Blessed Redeemer ! may be mine ! 
1844. 



BY THE GLEANER. 167 

LINES 

"WRITTEN IN THE CHAMBER OF AN INVALID, AGED 79. 

It is her birthda}^ ; and she wanders back, 
In memory, and in fitful slumbers, — back 
To days of earl}^ youth, and love, and joy : 
She sees, through that long vista, one green spot, 
The home of wedded love, that for brief space 
Was hers, — but five short years, and since that time^ 
More than twice twenty she has seen pass by. 
But still, she says, she often thinks of liim^ 
Youthful and beautiful, who died so young ; 
Thinks of him daily now, — and then she tells 
How kind he ever was, through every change ; 
Tells his last words to her, and to their child. 
And how in his cold hands he held her own, 
Until they led her from his lifeless corse. 

Oh, blessed is such memory ! — to us 
It is not given to know the day or hour. 
In which our lips, or those we love, shall be 
Forever closed in death. An unkind word 
Spoken to one beloved, may be the last 
Heard by that one from us. Should it be so. 
Memory, to us, may prove a scorpion. 
With never dying sting. 
1841. 



168 POETICAL PIECES. 



HUMILITY. 

" So Naaman came with his horses and with his chariot and stood at the door of 
the house of ElLsha. AndElisha sent a messenger unto him, saying, Go and wash 
in Jordan seven times, and thy flesh shall come again unto thee, and thou shalt 
be clean."— II Kings 5 : 9, 10. 

The Syrian, though he travelled far, 

Relief from suffering to ask, 
Scorned the great prophet's mild command, 

And proudly spurned the easy task ; 
He deemed that in all Israel's land 

No waters could be found, that ever 
Had worth like those he left behind, — 

Pharpar's bright stream, Abana's river. 

And thus it is, we feel the need 

Of a physician to the soul. 
And, ISTaaman-like, we ask of Heaven 

What shall be done to make us whole ; 
But — told what seems a little chain. 

Formed by long habit, must be broken, — 
We slight the warning voice, and ask 

A greater thing, a stronger token. 

Oh! let us humbly turn, and prize 

The '' still small voice," the least command 
Given to correct our erring course. 

And guide it to a better land. 
If called to act the humblest part. 

Obedience will secure a blessing. 
Though what we ask may be denied. 

Ours will be all that's worth possessing. 
1839. 



BY THE GLEANER. 169 

LINES 

SUGGESTED BY THE REMARK, " THERE TS NO SAFETY BUT IN OUR 



father's house. 



') 



Wanderer, through the bright, bewildering 

Maze of worldly pleasure, see 
What bright flowers (their thorns are hidden), 

Bloom spontaneously^ for thee. 
How serene the sky above thee ! — 

In such scene can danger be ? 

Yes ! a sword is hanging o'er thee. 

There are hidden pits around, — 
But a narrow path before thee^ 

Leading (o'er unshaken ground), 
To thy "Father's house," where only 

Rest and safety may be found. 

Rest on '' perfect love " and mercy, 

Yet no hour exempt from care. 
For thy place will be the w^atch-tower, — 

Watchfulness and ceaseless prayer. 
With thy Saviour's grace to aid thee. 

Must make sure thy refuge there. 

Thou ! from a long dream, awaking 
To the truth, that naught below, 

(Howe'er bright its early promise), 
E'er can happiness bestow; 

Though the stream of desolation 
Over all most cherished flow ; 



170 POETICAL PIECES, 

Though thy chosen props are failing 
To support thee, — though the ground 

From beneath thy feet is sliding, — 
Safety ma}^ e'en yet be found ; 

Seek th}^ " Father's house," where only 
Is a balm for every wound. 

Gracious Saviour ! bowed before thee, 
There are hearts, well taught to know 

Here they must " have tribulation," 
But too weak, too frail to go 

To their ^'Father's house," — Thou only 
" Strength in weakness " canst bestow. 

Wilt thou, howe'er deep and bitter 

Must their cup of suffering be, 
Teach them proofs of love and mercj^ 

In thy chastening to see. 
Teach to tread their path unmurmuring, — 

Grant it lead at last to Thee ! 
1845. 

THE FUGITIVES FROM INJUSTICE IN BOSTON, 

They came through perils, only known 

To those, who, guided by the ray 
Of one bright star, to lands unknown, 
Find unimagined dangers thrown 

Around their paths ; and day by daj^. 

Start, as they seem to hear the bay 
Of bloodhounds following their track. 

Urged on by men more fierce than they. 
And listen for the murderous shot,' — 
But death, e'en such a death, is not 

Feared, as they fear the coming day 
May see them borne to bondage back. 



BY THE GLEANER. 171 

Such dangers and such fears were passed ; 
They stood amid kind friends at last. 
Nor only friends, — for there was one, 
A woman, who long since had thrown 
Her fetters off — and dreamed no more, 
Of meeting those she loved before ; 
But she had found the one most dear. 

Her mother to her arms was given ! 
And warmly, almost wildly, she 

Poured forth her soul-felt thanks to Heaven. 



There were four others, — men, still young, 

Whose spirits, past endurance stung 

By countless, nameless wrongs, — at length 

Trusted that He, who gave a star 
To guide their way, would give them strength 

To gain a home, and freedom, far 
Bej^ond the reach of their control. 
Who fetter body, heart, and soul. 

Then hundreds gathered round, to hear 
The tale of trials each could tell, — 

And one spoke of a wife and child 
In bondage with him, loved so well, 

He risked his life, and theirs, to gain 

Freedom from the too-galling chain. 

And gratefull}^ of one he told. 

Who promised, in a vessel's hold 

To carry them concealed away, — 
His wife and child in safety there 
He placed, and hastened to prepare 

For joining them another day. 



172 POETICAL PIECES, 

But when again lie reached the shore, 
The ship he sought was seen no more, 

' Twas sailing far away ! 
And he — he would not pause to tell 
Of grief, and fear, and doubt that fell 
Upon his heart, — nor how their spell 
He broke, with courage naught could quell. 

For he had caught a ray 
Of hope ; with speechless rapture fraught, 
Had heard the wife, the child he sought, 
Were in Toronto safe, — and he 
With them, please Heaven, ere long would be. 

That mother, then, and daughter told 
Their tales, — nor could restrain 

Their fervent gratitude and joy. 
That they had met again ; 

Had met amid the kind, the free. 

And, more than all, at liberty. 

An old man rose ; his crown was bald. 

But locks, by time and sorrow bleached, 
In snow-white curls, on either side, 

Down even to his shoulders reached. 
He too had been a slave, and long 
Had borne unmurmuringly the wrong. 
The lengthened task, the wanton blow, 
And much that only slaves can know; 
But e'en in his degraded lot 
He found one bright, one happy spot. 
Found flowers upon his pathway strewn, — 
A wife and children were his own. 



BY THE GLEANER. 173 

His own ! Alas ! how vain the trust, 

Which the confiding slave reposes 
On those who trample in the dust 
The laws of kindred and of love, 
Of men o;i earth, and Heaven above, — 

How vain such trust, each day discloses! 

Of change, of poignant grief he told; 
They sold his wife, one child they sold, 

And left him only one ; 
And oh, how closely did his heart 
(With all beside thus forced to part). 

Cling round that much-loved son ! 
He was a gentle, noble boy ; 
And soon with deep, but fearful joy, 
His father marked his spirit high. 
And stronger, stronger grew the tie 

Which their lone spirits bound. 
It softened e'en the deep regret 
For those they never could forget. 
And in their saddened lot were yet 

Bright gleams of pleasure found. 

Pleasure, that soon was swept away. 
For, from his arms the boy they tore ; 

He too was sold, and on that day 
Enjoyment, even hope was o'er; 

There was not left a single ray 

To light the gloom of bondage more. 

And then he vowed to break his chain. 
Or, should the attempt be made in vain, 
Even the threatened death would be 
Preferred to life in slavery. 

15 



174 POETICAL PIECES 



The first attempt did fall, and all 

They'd threatened was endured, save death. 
The bloody lash just ceased to fall, 

In time to spare the failing breath. 
But added tortures moved him never 

From his firm purpose, and when strength 
Returned, he strove again to sever 

His soul-felt fetters; and at length 
Toil, danger, fear were past, and he 
Stood thankfully among the free. 

" Since then," he added, "many a year 

Has passed. I could not happy be, 
For memory dwelt on those so dear, 

Forever, ever lost to me. 
Yet I have been resigned and calm, 

^o worldl}^ hopes or fears came o'er me ; 
For grief like mine earth has no balm. 

And light from Heaven was beaming o'er me. 
But feelings that I fancied slept 

Forever, have awakened. I, 
With spirit deeply moved, have wept 

In thankfulness and sympath}^ 
With those this day has reunited. 

But while I share their grateful joy, 
I think how all my hopes were blighted. 

When parted from x^y noble boy. 
My boy ! oh, could I meet him now. 

But place my hand upon his brow 
And say, 'Dear John, you're mine,' and know 

No tyrant's will could bid us part, 
What perfect happiness would flow 

Upon my desolated heart I" 



BY THE GLEANER. 175 

The old man ceased; but ere was past 

The echo of the words he'd spoken, 
The breathless silence gathering there, 

By words that thrilled each heart, was broken: 
^^ Father ! my father !" — It was he. 

So loved, so mourned, — his long-lost son. 
Who rushed into his arms ; among 

Those welcome strangers he was one. 



1842. 



LINES 

WRITTEN AT TUNESSASSAH, CATTARAUGUS COUNTY, NEW YORK. 

My home ! my loved, my beautiful, my Pennsylvania home ! 
Well, well will it remembered be, wherever I may roam ; 
Though the votaries of fashion and w^ealth may turn away 
From Nature's quiet loveliness, in search of scenes more 

gay, 
N'ot all that wealth or fashion to their favorites can impart, 
•Could fill the place that spot has held, ivill hold within my 

heart ; 
And mingling with the thoughts of it, sweet cherished 

memories come. 
For it was — (four short years ago) — 'twas " wedded love's 

first home." 

Where now we dwell are wild, wild woods, and rushing 

streams around, 
And many a structure, rough and rude, sheltering strange 

inmates found. 
Brightly at evening glows our fire, but never does its light 
Keveal familiar face of friend, or kindred to our sight ; 
We know all such, where'er they be, are ver}^ far away ; — 
Of some we think when comes, what is, for them a ''''meet' 

ing day^^^ 



176 POETICAL PIECES, 

In many a well-remembered spot, where oft we sat of yore ; — 
Now we sit in our solitary home, by Alleghany's shore ; 
But we know who promised long ago, that where but " two 

or three" 
Were met together in His name, He in their midst would be ; 
And though well taught that, of ourselves, we are but poor 

and frail. 
His grace can give e'en us to know his promise doth not 

fail. 

Here once, a well-remembered eve, were contrite spirits 

blended. 
And by our hearthstone then, the voice of praise and 

prayer ascended; 
" The prayer of faith," — '' the fervent praj^er," — may such 

petitions be 
Offered before the throne of grace, not unavailingly ! 



Though shadows be (as they must be), across our pathway 
thrown. 

That Power who bade us hither, from our own loved dwell- 
ing come. 

Sheds spirit-cheering light upon our solitary home. 

First month, 1850. 

A FRAGMENT. 

''"FAITH LIES AT AINCHOIl IN THE MIDST OE THE WAVES." 

Oh ! for such faith, when round me 

The waves are rolling high ; — 
Though their white foam surround me. 

To keep a steadfast eye 



BY THE GLEANER. 177 

Where I know, e'en then is shining 

A star forever bright, 
Though waves and clouds combining, 

Conceal it from my sight. 

TUXESSASSAH, 1850. 



RETRIBUTION. 

[The circumstance related below, rests on the authority of a Clergy- 
man in the North of England.] 

"If thou forbear to deliver them that are drawn unto death, and those that are 
ready to be slain ; if thou sayest, Behold, we knew it not ; doth not he that pon- 
dereth the heart consider it? and he that keepeth thy soul, doth not he know 
it? and shall he not render to every man according to his works?" — Proverbs 
24:11, 12. 

A DEEP but narrow stream rolled darkly by. 

Showing no danger to a stranger's eye, 

But to its bosom mountain streams had poured. 

And swollen to fearful height the usual ford ; 

This to a dweller near the bank was known. 

Who marked the current from his hillside home, 

And saw a traveller on the farther side. 

Approach incautiously the deepened tide. 

How could he warn him ? for his eye, iaitent 

To find the ford, was on the water bent; 

No time to meet and save, — but there was one 

More near the bank, might send a signal on ; 

To him he cried, '• The stream cannot be crossed. 

Oh ! warn 3^on stranger that his life is lost 

If he attempt it." But each earnest word 

Fell on the listener's ear as though unheard. 

Until he coldly said, '* Can he not see ? 

'Tis his own business, and is nought to me !" 



178 POETICAL PIECES, 

He did not vmrn Mm I and the billows bore 

The traveller's lifeless body to the shore ; 

He looked — oh ! well that pallid face was known, — 

A hue as death-like fixed upon his own, 

He shook with horror, agony, remorse. 

And late repentance, — ''two,^ Ms father^ s corse ! 

Does censure mingle with the pitying thought 

Of one thus suffering? — be the moral brought 

Home to each breast. From hill and valley round. 

Where'er free spirits and pure hearts are found. 

We hear a voice of warning, loud and deep. 

To rouse the oppressor, — " comfort those who weep." 

And do we send it onward ? As we prize 

Our peaceful homes, and dear domestic ties. 

Let us — however humble be the task 

To each assigned — let us not pause to ask 

Of what avail can be our feeble powers ? 

Or say, " It is their business^ and not ours." 

Oh ! '' doth not he that pondereth the heart," 

Give each one power to perform a part ? 

Doth he not, soon or late, the effort bless 

To make the suffering of the wretched less ? 

Had he who would not give one sign to save 
Him, whom he deemed a stranger, from the grave. 
Had he but warned, and striven to give relief, 
Remorse would not have added to his grief. 

1837. 



BY THE GLEANER. 179 



TO MY FATHER. 

<< Time has brought me, as it passed, 

More valued joys than those it banished." 

Thy locks are silvery ! — I remember well, 

When with my little fingers in thy hair, 
I searched to find the few that Time had changed, — 

So different from the sable hundreds there. 
"My child, come hither!" — and into thy chair, 

Or to thy arms I sprang; — 'twas long ago; — 
There are who tell us peace with childhood flies. 

That after-years no happiness bestow ; 
But, thanks to thee, I have not found it so ; 

Bright, and still brighter joys endear my home. 
And friends, by many a trial proved, are mine. 

And mine to know that wheresoe'er I roam, 
Th}^ heai't will greet me, when again I come. 

To take my place in the loved circle here. 
The dearest place on earth ! — of all my dreams. 

Or wishes for the future — still most dear 
The hope, that I ma}^ never cause a tear 

Of sorrow, where I've found such changeless love; 
How truly, gratefully, I value it. 

May future years enable me to prove. 
1835. 



180 POETICAL PIECES, 



[A young girl suffered with a diseased tooth, which her dentist 
wished to extract, but objections were made, and some weeks passed 
before it was removed ; then a phj^sician was immediately called, 
who at once said she could not live more than forty-eight hours.] 

Sudden as a burst of thunder 

When no cloud is in the sky, — 
Came the message, — kindly spoken. 

But how awful, — " Thou must die !" 

''Die!" exclaimed the stricken maiden, 

''I am only seventeen ! — 
Oh ! I cannot ! — mother, tell me 

That it is not death you mean. 

" ' It must be !' — what shall I do then ? 

' Pray !' — alas ! what can I say ? 
I have knelt and said my prayers^ 

But I know not how to pray."^^ 

Writhing then in speechless anguish, 

Sank her spirit to despair ; 
But e'en in that darkest hour, 

Was redeeming mercy there. 

'Twas no human agent taught her 

In her agony to pray ; 
But the light a Saviour brought her. 

Showed the one unerring way. 

Then she prayed ! — as gave the Spirit 
Utterance. Ere twice rose the sun, 

Humbled, and resigned, and calmly. 
Could she say, '' Thy will be done ! '' 



BY THE GLEANER. 181 

Ere another night closed round her, 
Dawned, we trust, a brighter day ; 

From all pain, and fear, and sorrow, 
Was her spirit called away. 

A monument of Mercy! — may it be 
A heeded warning ! e'en more suddenly 
To younger, older, may the message come ; 
Are we prepared for such a summons home? 
Home to our " Father's house ?" And who can say, 
'' I live as though I knew the present day 
Must be my last ?" Oh! may we strive aW^/?i 
To labor while 'tis day, for soon will come the night. 
1869. 



[The "Friend" to whom the following lines were addressed 
dreamed a person came and broke the staff he used in walking. Next 
morning his wife was taken ill ; he said he thovght of his staff. She 
died in a few days.] 

TO AN AGED FRIEND. 

" For thou art with me, thy rod and thy staflf they comfort me." — Psalm 23:4. 

Thy earthly staff is broken. 
And beneath the heartfelt blow, 

Thy dearest human feelings 
In bitter anguish flow. 

For long, long years, unclouded 

Shone affection's cheering ray ; 
But earth's most valued blessing 

At last must pass awa3^ 
16 



182 POETICAL PIECES, 

Whatever the tie that binds us 
To the dearest, kindest friend, 

There comes an hour of parting — 
Such union death must end. 

But hast thou not a firmer, 
A changeless staff, e'en now ? 

Hast thou not learned, unmurmuring, 
To thy Master's will to bow ? 

Yes, quiet resignation 

In thy placid look appears ; 

HE who in youth was trusted, 
Blesses thy latter years. 

His " rod and staff" thy " comfort " 

Through all the past have been, 
And they will never leave thee, 



E'en in life's closing scene. 



1839. 



" THE GEOUKD OK WHICH WE STAKD IS OUR 
INHERITANCE." 

May it — the ground on which I stand — 
Be changeless faith. Oh ! Lord, in thee. 

And may thy precept, thy command. 
My rule of thought and action be ! 

That ground is calm, when worldly storms 
Lay many a prouder dwelling low ; 

And only there is ever found 

That peace the world cannot bestow. 



BY THE GLEANER. 183 

Oh, then, to place and keep me there, 
Thine all-sufficient grace dispense ! 

And may the '' God of Jacob" bless 
The lot of my inheritance. 
1825. 



MOTHER AND SON. 

" Not my will, but Thine, be done."— Luke 22 : 42. 

A LOVELY babe lay motionless, 

His lips compressed in pain ; 
His pulse had fluttered, paused, as though 

It ne'er would throb again. 
They deemed his suffering almost o'er, 

He knew no mental strife ; 
And death to him had not a pang, 

Save that of parting life. 

Their pastor knelt in prayer, beside 

The sinless infant's bed: 
" Thou! who canst save the dying — Thou! 

Whose power can liaise the dead^ 
Sj^are^ if it 6e" — The mother wrung 

Her hands in agony. 
" Oh! say not if — my boy! my bo}^ 

He must not, shalt not die." 

He did not die! — the unequal breath 
Seemed struggling to depart — 

But yet he lived — and lived to wring 
His mother's erring heart. 



184 POETICAL PIECES, 

A disobedient, reckless boy, 
Her love he ne'er returned. 

But all her kindness, all her care. 
With hardened spirit spurned. 

•What felt she then ? Oh! none can tell 

Her grief, her anguish wild ; 
Remorse embittered ever}^ thought 

Of her guilt-branded child. 
She lived to know the worst — but not 

To watch his parting breath — 
He numbered twice ten years of crime. 

Then died a felon's death. 
1836. 



A MOTHER'S PRAYER. 

A MOTHER sat beside the couch 

Where lay her infant boy, 
In the calm sleep to childhood given. 

Ere worldly cares annoy. 
The babe was beautiful ! — she gazed 

With all a mother's pride. 
And deemed the loveliest on earth 

Was slumbering by her side. 

That feeling passed, and love and fear 

Were mingled in her breast ; 
She thought of future hours, when care 

Or pain might banish rest ; 
And thought that he — that even he 

So beautiful and pure. 
Forsaking virtue's path, might stray 

Where specious crimes allure. 



BY THE GLEANER. 185 

How calm and innocent his breast ! 

Could guilt e'er enter there ? 
Would his e'er be a felon's death ? 

She breathed a mental prayer, 
That rather now, e'en though so dear — 

That now, while undefiled. 
Pure as when Heaven bestowed the gift, 

It would recall her child. 



A prophet entered — one who came 

Led by the unerring '^ Word,'' 
And answered to her secret thought, 

" Woman ! thy prayer is heard." 
And it was heard/ — a few more days 

To that loved child were given. 
And then, secure from future ill. 

His spirit was in Heaven. 
1836. 



DEATH-BED OF A SLAVEHOLDER. 

They had departed, — they who latelj'^ stood 
Beside the death-bed of an aged man. 
To witness his last act ; bis trembling hand 
(Then, when he felt that he was leaving all 
His earthly treasures), traced his signature 
To rich bequests of money, houses, lands. 
And, — even in that awful hour, bis frame 
By palsy stricken, when he felt his heart 
Ere long must cease to beat, — to others he 
Secured the power (so soon to pass from him). 
Of holding fellow-men in slavery. 



186 POETICAL PIECES, 

And then he slept, — the excitement past, he sank 
Into a deep, long slumber ; but there still 
Was one who watched beside him, holding there, 
Communion with her own soul and Heaven. 

Hers had been the deep, speechless grief, that wrings 
With overwhelming agony, the heart 
To which such trial comes, — and she had prayed 
For resignation and for strength, and they 
Were mercifully granted her ; she felt 
Her Heavenly Father still would care for her ; 
And to a high, a sacred duty, then 
She turned. 

Her sire awoke, and thankfully 
She marked the light yet beaming in his eye. 
Performed each needful office, then with low 
And faltering voice, "Father!" she said. "My child. 
What would'st thou ? speak ! is aught upon thy mind?" 
" There is, my father ! — yes, there is, — I'd ask 
To whom you've willed your slaves ?" — "My Isadore, 
It is not like 3^ou, to concern yourself 
With such affairs, — but I have wellnigh done 
With all of earth, and, dear one, not from you 
Wish I concealment ; twenty-five I give 
Your mother, thirt}^ to my eldest son, 
And to your younger brother twenty-five. 
To you, my child, a portion will be paid. 
Giving you wealth at your command alone." 

"Thanks, dearest father! — yet, kind as you are, 
And ever have been, I one favor more 
Would ask." "My daughter, why disturb me thus. 
The clpse of life so near?" "It pains me much, 
But I znust speak. My father, will you grant 
My one request?'' "I will, my child." "I ask 
You then to give your slaves to me,— no more 



BY THE GLEANER. 187 

I wish of your possessions.'' "Why, my girl, 
They are not worth half I have given you, 
And would to you be useless." " No, oh, no ! 
The moment they are mine they shall be free, 
And then, dear father, when your soul is called 
To judgment, there will be no record of 
Your having doomed to hopeless slavery, 
Your fellow-beings." 

To that old man's brow 
A dark shade came, and minutes passed away, 
In which he spoke not. Then he said, '' So short 
My time, — call my physician, Isadore." 
He was obeyed, and anxiously inquired, — 
" May I yet hope to live for three hours more ?" 
The answer cheered him, and his latest hours 
Were blest by penitence and hope, — he gave 
Freedom to all his slaves. 

And Isadore, — 
The gold he left her was the smallest part 
Of her inheritance ; the gratitude. 
The warm affection of the disenthralled. 
Were hers for life. And they, — did they go forth, 
To Northern streets and alleys, indolent. 
Poor, and dependent? — Or were they allured 
By false, but specious, tales, to leave their home, 
Their country, seeking a more genial clime, — 
Finding but misery and early graves ? 
No, no, they are what others have been, what 
Thousands beside would 6e, with such a friend, 
Industrious, faithful, — toiling cheerfully 
For those by whom, but for that gentle girl, 
They had been held in bondage ; and they too, — 
Her brothers, bless her, — feeling that the guilt 
Once theirs, is now removed ; and proving too 



188 POETICAL PIECES, 

By thousands added to their former store, 
What gain is theirs, who from the laborer 
Withhold not his reward. 
1842. 

TO S. B. 

" Keep yourselves from idols."— 1 John 5 : 21. 

Thou'st seen, where Ganges' far-famed waters flow, 

Men worship idols — (idols of the cIslj 
Beneath their feet), hast seen them lowly bow 

E'en to the work of their own hands, and pray 
To a frail image, that the next moment may 

Sweep from their view forever. Didst thou then 
Turn lightly from the piteous sight away. 

Nor deem that ever, 'mid more gifted men, 

'Twould be thy lot to mark worship like that again ? 

Like that ? — nay, far more sorrowful ! to us 

What priceless, countless blessings have been given ! 

Can we remember them, nor bow our souls 
In humble, ceaseless gratitude to heaven ? 

Can we e'er turn from pure, "indwelling" light 

To phantoms that may lead to rayless night ? 

Yes, e'en where inspiration sheds 

Its holy light around. 
Is many an altar, many a shrine 

Of idol wo7^ship found. 
Sometimes we dream that from such shrine 

Beams a celestial ray ; 
Sometimes we know the image there 

Is but of painted clay ; 
And yet, alas ! to it is given 
Devotion only due to heaven. 



BY THE GLEANER. 189 

Oh ! let us search our hearts to find 

The idols cherished there, 
And seek for strength to banish them, 

By penitence and prayer : — 
More guilty far shall we be held, 

Than they on Ganges^ shore, 
If, for the " much " we have received, 

We do not render more, — 
More than those poor benighted men. 
Whom we may pity, not condemn. 
1839. 

" BEER-LAHAI-ROI.'' 

How sad, how utterly cast down 

And desolate, felt Hagar when. 
The present and the future dark, 

She turned her from the haunts of men. 
To wander in the wilderness. 
With scarce a hope her path to bless. 

Yet in that deeply trying hour. 

She found the All-seeing eye was there ; — 

And after, when, 'neath added grief. 
Her spirit yielded to despair. 

She heard again that blessed voice. 

That bade her fainting soul rejoice. 

" Thou seest me !'^ — Oh ! how desolate. 

How dark soe'er our path may be. 
We may look up in faith and hope. 

And humbly say, " Thou seest me.'' 
Even if sunk in sin, we know 
Whence does a healing fountain flow. 



190 POETICAL PIECES, 

For countless blessings poured around 
Our paths, how thankless do we prove, 

Till, Blessed Saviour ! taught to feel 
In Thy deep chastening^ Thy love. 

Finding this world a wilderness. 

We learn that Thou alone canst bless. 

Thou seest us in extremest grief, 

E\iBn in such deep agony 
As Hagar's, when she turned aside. 

Leaving her dearest one to die. 
When human strength is powerless. 
Thy boundless mercy still can bless. 

Oh I to feel this 1 'Tis Thou alone 

Canst teach it to the stricken heart. 
And often, in thy love, 'tis taught. 

By bidding cherished hopes depart : 
Oh I most unworthy though we be. 
Grant that we humbly, thankfully. 
May say, and feel, '' Thou seest me." 



1844. 



" STRIVE FOR THE RIGHT.'' 

(lines written by request.) 

Progress! Reform! Improvement! 

Repeated o'er and o'er, 
In lecture, song, and sermon. 

Sounding from shore to shore. 

Those words are ringing round us : 
Lo here ! lo there ! we're told, 

Mingling in such confusion 
As Babel showed of old. 



BY THE GLEANER. 191 

So various is their meaning, 

Should we choose one for a guide. 
Would not others come before us, 

Thrusting the first aside ? 

Not from them, however specious. 

Should we seek to make a choice ; 
But in quiet and in patience, 

List for " a still small voice." 

The earthquake, wind, and fire, 

.Claimed not the prophet's care,* 
But when came that " small" yet powerful voice, 

He knew the Lord was there. 

Still there ! — the olden prophets 

Have long since passed away; 
And some may query sadly, 

'^ The fathers, where are they?" 

Yet we have that voice unerring. 

That sacred inward Light, 
Which, if followed humbly, faithfully. 

Will guide our steps aright. 

But the unwearied tempter 

Has many a specious wile. 
To right or left hand errors • 

Still striving to beguile. 

And human strength is powerless. 

Or aids to lead astray; 
He who is strength in weakness 

Alone can guide our way. 

*1 Kings 19:11, 12. 



192 POETICAL PIECES, 

And though too oft rebellious, 
If repentant, He will prove 
An Advocate for mercy. 
With the Holy One above. 
1870. 



A CONTRAST. 

A SCREAM of heart-rending agony 

From Susquehanna's tide 
Rang far around, and a mother rushed 

To the swollen river's side. 

The voice of her son — a noble boy — 

Rose 'mid the water's roar. 
As he strove, against the current's force, 

To gain the distant shore. 

There were two who heard her fervent prayer. 

The sinking child to save ; 
The one was a '^ free ivhite citizen^^^ 

The other a " dark-browed slaved 

The sufferer's efforts more feeble grew, 

More faint his despairing cry ; 
The white man glanced at the awful scene. 

And said, " The boy will die !" 

" Die! if he must, I will die with him," 

Exclaimed the generous slave. 
A plunge — a struggle — unshrinkingly 

He met each raging wave. 



BY THE GLEANER. 193 

With fearless soul, but fast-failing strength, 

The rescued boy he bore 
To his mother's wild embrace, then sank 

Exhausted on the shore. 

But soon, with a pulse till then unknown. 

His heart throbbed high and free: 
His chain was broken by grateful hearts, 

He rose to Liberty ! 



1838. 



[It was said by Caleb Pennock, an ancient and estimable minister 
of the Society of Friends, that that Society was like an old building, 
which must all be taken apart, and the sound timbers used to erect 
another edifice] 

Oh ! who amongst us will there be, 

When tried and proved, who will be found 

Worthy to fill a place where all 
Must be unwavering and sound ? 

Some, viewed as pillars nought can move, 

May hollow and unworthy prove. 

But leave we them to Him whose eye 

Sees not as erring mortals see ; 
And looking to ourselves, inquire 

What place assigned to us may be, 
When tried by an unerring test, — 
The secret feelings of the breast. 

Oh ! may we for the trial hour. 

Be striving humbly to prepare; 
And heed the w^arning voice that cries. 

In earnest tones, — Beware, beware ! 



194 POETICAL PIECES, 

Lean not on that which is decayed, 

Lest with it ye be lowly laid. 

" Cease ye from man^^^ however pure, 

Upright, and firm he may appear ; 
Look not to friend or brother, though 

Gentle and kind and very dear ; 
Let one unerring voice be heard 
Alone — the pure " inspeaking word." 

That voice will lead us as it led 

Our ^' early Friends," and oh! may we 

Humbly and earnestly take heed 
To the "sure word of prophecy." 

Even till the "dark place" departs, 

"And the day-star rise" in our hearts. 



TO S. L. 

Once again I^m parted from thee, 

Dearest! — Once again 
Memory, hope, and fear are mingling 

In my heart and brain, — 
Yet I'd banish idle fancies, 

They are very vain. 

Kind, warm-hearted welcomes greet me. 

Friends of early years, — 
Friends and kindred gather round me, 

Cordial and sincere. 
Yet a cloud o'er all is resting. 

For thou art not here ! 



BY THE GLEANER. 195 

Friend, protector, guide, — my husband 1 

Still I turn to thee, 
Haply it may be too fondly. 

May — oh ! may I be, 
'Mid my countless blessings, ever 
Looking to the gracious Giver 

Of them all to me. 
1859. 

THE TEMPTED. 

'TwAS a wedding party — the gay and the fair, 

The young and light-hearted assembled there ; 

If grief were among them 'twas hidden, — it seemed 

That pleasure alone from each sparkling eye beamed, 

Not one clouded brow in the circle was found. 

All was gayety there, — and the wine-cup went round. 

The wine-cup went round, — there was one passed it by, 

Calmly, firmly, or giving a playful reply 

To the thoughtless who blamed, or the heartless who sneered, 

He asked not their praise, nor their ridicule feared ; 

But felt, — to the past as he silently turned. 

Unless now the first draught from the goblet were spurned, 

The strength he had pra^^ed for, and gained, would be o'er, 

No safet}^ remained if he tasted it more ! 

There was one whom he loved, — she was there, she would 

see. 
With temptation around him, how firm he could be. 
But she stood by his side — the wine-cup in her hand. 
And in tones 'twixt entreaty and playful command. 
Exclaimed, ''Oh, so obstinate, how can you be ? 
You will not, 3^ou cannot refuse it from me !" 
He did not refuse it^ and proud of her power, 
She enjoyed it awhile, — but alas for that hour ! 



196 POETICAL PIECES, 

Time passed, — they were wedded, — and soon from her side 

He wandered, and left her a desolate bride. 

Or returned to his home, with the withering blight 

Of intemperance upon him — she wept at the sight. 

But her tears are unheeded ; or answered, as yet 

Her reasoning, entreaties, reproaches, are met, — 

He bids her remember that night, when a draught, 

In obedience to her, from the goblet he 'quaffed. 

Says that others had urged, might have urged him in vain, 

His soul, but for her, had been free from that stain ; 

And she feels such reproaches were earned but too well, — 

In trials and sorrows that no one can tell. 

And in fruitless repentance, she passes her life, 

A hopelessly wretched inebriate's wife ! 

1841. 



THANKSGIVING. 



Speaking to yourselves in psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs, singing and 
making melody in your hearts to the Lord ; giving thanks always for all things 
unto God and the Father, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. — Eph. 5 : 19, 20. 



The sun is beaming o'er a glorious scene. 

Late shrouded in the rayless gloom of night, — 

The same kind hand which hid that scene from view. 
Restores it now, more freshly, purely bright ; 

Thus, while we sleep, an eye that never sleeps, 

Watch over our unconscious breathing keeps : 
Therefore give thanks. 

The morn of life in dewy freshness shines, 
Its clouds but temper noon's too fervid ray. 



BY THE GLEANER. 197 

And in the evening sunbeams, richly glow 

The fruits and flowers nurtured in early day ; 
From storms is shelter offered — heavenly calm ; 
In the most bitter cup is mingled balm, 
Therefore give thanks. 

The Moslem priests proclaim an hour of prayer, 
And every head is bowed, each knee is bent 

At their command. To us, from all around, 
A holier call for prayer and praise is sent, — 

From nature's changes, sunshine, shade, and shower. 

From countless blessings, marking every hour, 
Therefore give thanks. 

Give thanks ! — but in no lightly spoken words, — 
From the deep fountains of a contrite heart. 

Be " spiritual,'' unspoken praises poured, — 
The humble and confiding Christian's part ! 

To Him, our Father, evermore the same, 

''For all things" in our blessed Saviour's name. 
Give thanks ! give thanks ! 
1839. 

STANZAS. 

"And when he had spent all, there arose a mighty famine in that land ; and he 
began to be in want." — Luke 15 ; 14. 

How bright and beautiful our world ! 

How rich in all that nature brings ; 
Above, around, beneath our feet. 

Unnumbered are her offerings. 
And minds are given us to enjoy 

The countless treasures poured around. 
And deep, rich founts of sympathy 

In many a kindred heart are found. 
17 



198 POETICAL PIECES, 

Yet — there'' s a famine in the land ; 

And who has not '' began to be 
In want?" — who does not sometimes feel 

The humbled spirit's poverty ? 
Though of earth's treasures all the best, 

The purest, to our lot may fall, 
Though rich in intellectual gifts. 

We're poor indeed — if these he all. 

If all our sustenance be dn-awn 

From plants which have on earth their root, 
Though bright their hour of blossoming. 

At last we father bitter fruit. 
Oh, let us, ere it ripen, ere 

Of Heaven's free gifts we spend our share, 
Seek food for the immortal soul. 

Where there is plenty yet to spare. 

Then will the countless treasures, poured 

Around our daily paths on earth. 
Be thankfully received, but not 

Valued above their real worth ; 
A spirit, to enjoy aright 

This world of beauty, will be given 
To those who view it as a scene. 

Through which their pathway leads to Heaven. 

1840. 



BY THE GLEANEK. 199 



IMPROMPTU. 

' Rejoice evermore. Pray without ceasing. In everything give thanks. 
. 1 Thessaloniaxs 5 : 16, 17, 18. 

Above all vain repining, 

With grateful spirit soar ! — 
In Heaven's unnumbered blessings 

Kejoicing evermore. 

That clouds which gather round thee, 

May calmly pass away, 
Or for strength to rise above them, 

Pray ! — without ceasing, pray ! 

For the healthful breeze of winter, 

The balmy air of spring, — 
For summer's flowers, and autumn's fruit, — 

Give thauks for everything! 
1839. 



TO 



"As rivers of water in a dry place ; as the shadows of a great rock in 
weary land."— Isaiah 32:2. 

The world has desert places. 
But to humble faith and prayer. 

Will be given an oasis, 

In the darkest pathway there. 

However sad and dreary 

Thy lot may sometimes be, 
Remember, when most weary. 

There's a place of rest for thee. 
1841. 



200 POETICAL PIECES, 



"HOUSEHOLD TREASURES." 

What are the treasures of earth ? Behold ! 

The miser points to his hoarded gold ; 

The pampered children of luxury, 

To the glittering baubles that wealth can buy ; 

The student tells of his gathered lore. 

While with ceaseless labor he toils for more; 

And the answer as varying we find. 

As the changing thoughts of the human mind. 

But soon or late there may come a day. 

When such treasures, ''to moth and rust '^ a prey. 

Shall, from those who valued them most, depart. 

Or remain to probe the repentant heart. 

Yet if 'mid the blessings, poured around 

Our path through life, there be any found 

So pure, so linked with our thoughts of heaven. 

That we almost hope to be forgiven. 

Though they share by far too large a part. 

In the deepest feelings of the heart ; 

Oh, if such treasures on earth there be. 

They are found in guileless infancy. 

The image of purity undeiiled. 

And the loving heart of a sinless child. 

But, happy 3^oung mother, there cometh a day. 

When thy " household treasures '' shall pass away. 

Thou may'st see them sink to an early grave. 

Or leave thee the storms of the world to brave. 

Dost thou strive to teach them, where'er they roam. 

To seek the path to a heavenly home ? 

Dost thou feel, the lines which thy hand shall trace 

On their spirits now, time may ne'er efface ? 



BY THE GLEANER. 201 

Remembering this query must answered be, 

" Those innocent ones that I gave to thee, 

To watch and to guide through the treacherous way 

Of the world's dark wilderness, where are they?" 

Oh, forget not, those so cherished and dear, 

Have '' no continuing city here,'' 

But humbly and earnestly pray that He, 

Who gave them, give " wisdom and strength to thee,'' 

And his all-sufficient grace impart, 

To turn to himself each beloved one's heart. 

1843. 

HYMN. 

'* Go ye also into the vineyard ; and whatsoever is right that shall ye receive."— 

Matthew 20 : 7. 

" Enter, enter in and labor," 

Still we hear the call ; 
And the promise never broken. 

Still is made to all. 

Howsoe'er our steps may wander 

From the beaten way. 
If the path we tread is brightened 

By a heavenly ray, 

Pause no more in fear or doubting, 

Of the end to ask ; 
Seek but willingness to labor 

In the appointed task. 

Help and strength will then be given. 

And whate'er is right 
(Haply not what we may wish for), 

Will the toil requite. 



202 POETICAL PIECES, 

Oh ! we know not what is needed, 
To prepare the heart 

With its many worldly idols, 
Cherished long, to part. 

All, all these, we may be bidden 

Wholly to resign, 
That against our feeble efforts, 

They no more combine. 

But a rich reward awaits us. 
One of priceless worth. 

Better far than all the treasures 
Ever gained from earth. 

Enter then the field of labor. 
Soon our toil will be 

Past, and the reward it brings us. 
Ours eternally. 
1840. 



[Mary Dockstater, daughter of Benjamin Pierce, a Seneca In- 
dian, deceased Eighth month 18th, 1851.] 

I SAW her first, 
A meek young maiden, moving gracefully 
Within her widowed father's humble home ; — 
The home of many, young and motherless. 
Who clunof with strono^, confidino^ love to her. 

That had not always been her dwelling. She, 
In a far distant city, had been taught 
The housewife's useful arts, whose practice threw 
An air of pleasantness on all around. 



BY THE GLEANER. 203 

Then she became a wife, her chosen one 
Sharing the home she dearly loved ; but oft 
Did pain and sickness visit her. 

She gave 
To me a little token (cherished well) 
Of kind regard, and then we parted, with 
A hope to meet ere very long again. 
We met no more ! With her ^* life's partner" she 
At length went many miles away, to share 
With him another home ; and months passed on. 
But health returned not ; — and when died her babe, 
There came a lono:ino: for her childhood's home — 
A strong, o'erpowering wish to see again 
That home, and loved ones there whom death had left. 
And he, whose skill and medicine had failed 
To check the steady progress of disease, 
Said, ''Not for her are mau}^ days on earth. 
But take her thither; she cannot survive 
The disappointment of a hope so dear." 

Her parent asked her of '' her state of mind. 
In view of the departure of her soul 
From mortal clay." 

She said, '' I have repented all my sin ; 
I think that I am going now to Heaven, 
And could praise Him with song forever. I 
To go away am willing, — am prepared. 
But God will do with me as unto Him 
It seemeth good to do." 

Then they (her father and her husband) brought 
Her on her bed away ; and thrice twelve miles 
Were to be passed to reach her home, beside 
The quiet Alleghany. But when half 
That distance had been traversed, failed the strength, 
The little strength that had been hers till then. 



204 POETICAL PIECES, 

She said, " Stop, father, I shall die — I am 

Now dying, and am ready." Then e^en there 

('Twixt her two homes on earth), her spirit passed 

From earth forever, to a better home. 

As we sincerely trust; unto "an house 

Not made with hands," eternal in the Heavens. 

Meek daughter of the noble Senecas ! 
Thy memory will be dear to me. And oh ! 
That He who gave thy parting spirit peace 
May in such awful hour "remember me 
According to His mercy." 

TUNESSASSAH, 1851. 

LINES 



TO A CHILD WHO, IN ACUTE SUFFERING, EXCLAIMED, ** OH ! 



J 

MOTHER, PRAY FOR ME ; I DO NOT KNOW 
HOW TO PRAY. 



j> 



Dost thou ask that another pray for thee ? 
Words may be spoken on bended knee, 
Eloquent, beautiful, yet no share 
Of the spirit of praj^er be breathing there. 

Dost thou wish that thou mayst be taught the way, 
In sickness or pain for thyself to pray? 
Of thy Heavenly Father that lesson seek; 
He will teach thy spirit to Him to speak. 
He will teach thee if thou obey His voice, 
If the path of duty shall be thy choice, 
If thou do not rebelliously depart 
From His law that is written in thy heart. 
But strive in humility day by day 
To follow as He shall direct thy way. 



BY THE GLEANER. 205 

Entreat that He give thee a heart to pray, — 
Not that no sorrow or care He send, 
But that strength to bear them His grace may lend. 
Whatever tliy suffering may be. 
Remember who bore far more for thee ; 
So mayst thou be able through grace divine 
To say, Not my will be done, but Thine. 
1841. 

LIVING WATER. 

" Let him that is athirst, come : and whosoever will, let him take the water 
of life freely."— Rev. 22 : 17. 

He who that sacred stream supplies. 
Has placed no barrier in the way ; 

But human weakness, passion, pride, 
Oft lead us from the path astray. 

In prospect, though that path may seem 

Dark, to our unenlightened view. 
If in sincerity we take 

Christ for our guide, he'll lead us through. 

And light celestial, such as ne'er 
By worldly e3^es is seen, will beam 

Around, within us, while we draw 

Refreshment from that living stream : 

The stream of life ! its water pure, 
To those who humbly seek, is given 

Freely on earth, preparing them 

To reach, at last, its source in- heaven. 



1841. 



18 



206 POETICAL PIECES, 



'' FOLLOW ME.^' 

" If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee ? Follow thou me." 

John 21 : 22. 

'• Follow thou me ! and if I will 
That he shall tarry, what to thee 

Is that?" 'Twas thus our Saviour spoke, 
Thus still he speaketh: '' Follow me !'' 

Such is the call to every soul, 

For (though b}^ man's rebellious will 

So oft unheeded, or despised). 
It pleads in love and mercy still. 

Then follow Him in humble faith. 
Nor deem that all must go astray. 

Who do but ''tarry " till the '' Star 
Of Bethlehem " shall direct their way. 

Their path on earth may lead afar 
From that in which thy lot is cast ; 

But all who follow Christ, will be 
United in one fold at last, 



LINES. 

^' Prepare the upper chamber of our hearts, &c,"— E. M. W. 
(See Mark 14 : 15.) 

What is in the "upper chambe:^" 
Of my th|:*obbing heart to-day ? 

In this sunlight let me search it. 
What is there to clear away ? 



BY THE GLEANER. 207 

There are humbly grateful feelings 
For the good " our Father" sends ; 

There is grateful warm affection 
For my msLuy precious friends. 

There are home and all its treasures, 

Blessings of each passing day. 
Is it not a sunny chamber? 

Is there aught to clear away ? 

Oh, the vain self-righteous question ! 

Are they not as idols there ? 
Is there 'mid their bloom and sunshine, 

For the Saviour room to spare ? \ 

Are there not in darkened corners. 

Hidden from the light of day. 
Wrong, rebellious feelings cherished. 

And the better turned away ? 

Long, long years with countless mercies 

Has m}^ cup been running o'er ; 
But forgetful and ungrateful. 

Can I, dare I, ask for more ? 

Oh, one more ! that strength be given. 
Strength for humble, earnest prayer — 

Until my heart be cleansed and broken — 
That He may pity not, nor spare. 

1868. 



208 POETICAL PIECES, 



"PRAY WITHOUT CEASING." 

1 Thessalonians 5 : 17. 

'^ Mother^ why does the Apostle say, 
' Pray without ceasing T how can I pray, 
When many around me I hear and see, 
When my brothers and sisters talk to me. 
At my daily tasks, in the crowded street, 
When at home and abroad with friends I meet ; 
When other duties demand my care, 
Dear mother, how can I kneel in prayer V 
" My child, thou mayst be favored to feel 
The spirit of prayer^ and y^i not kneel ; 
Though many affections have a part 
('Tis right they should), in thy warm young heart; 
"^If thou learn to cherish, all else above, 
The thoughts of a Saviour's boundless love, 
Remembering thy own un worthiness still. 
And hiimblj^ seeking to know His will; 
If thou feel his presence is everywhere. 
He will put in thy heart the voice of prayer. 
Look on the ocean, the mountain, and plain, 
The stately forest, and waving grain. 
Do these but the wonders of Nature declare ? 
The hand of the Author of Nature is there ! 
From highest mountain to simplest flower. 
All prove his creative, sustaining power. 
But, my child, although the life of man 
In this beautiful world is but a span, 
The immortal soul is of far more worth 
Than aught else our Creator placed on earth. 
Oh, guard that treasure with grateful care ! 
Seeking for strength in unceasing prayer. 



BY THE GLEANER. 209 

Though unspoken thy aspirations be, 
There's an ear to hear, and if earnestly 
Thou strive to subdue thy stubborn will, 
And thy Saviour's mandates to fulfil, 
A guiding light on thy path will shine ; 
A blessed hope and trust may be thine, 
Which, guided and strengthened by grace divine, 
Shall (whatever else may demand thy care), 
Breathe in thy heart in unceasing prayer." 
1842. 



TO 



" Cease from thine own wisdom." — Pjrov. 23 : 4. 
" For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God." — 1 Cor. 3 : 19. 

Leave me the faith, the childlike faith 
From memory's earliest record mine. 

Ere I had heard of unbelief. 

Or knew that men would rear a shrine 

To reason, taking thither all 

They read or saw, or thought or heard, 
History, promise, prophecy, — 

E'en inspiration's sacred word. 

Nor knew I then, that men would call 

Facts — '' Bible truths," — but types of things 

Present or past, or having place 
But in their own ima2:inino^s. 

Ere I had heard of things like these, 

I had a little book, which told 
(A treasure to the infant mind) 

Of Joseph by his brethren sold : 



210 POETICAL PIECES, 

And with what interest new and deep, 
I from my primer learned to say 

The hymn which told of that blessed babe, 
Whose bed, whose " softest bed was hay.'' 

Then too, how Ananias and 

Sapphira died, was pondered o'er; 
Then came the Scriptures, with their rich, 

And varied, and exhaustless store. 
Dreaming not, of the records there, 

That any could a doubt avow, 
I asked no worldwise comments then, 

I do not ask for any now. 

But I do ask (and oh ! for grace 
To seek aright for what is meet). 

That in His sacred words be found 

" A lamp " to guide my wandering '' feet." 

United with the unerring light 

In mercy placed " within " to shine ! 

Then leave to me the childlike faith. 
From memory's earliest record mine. 



1843. 



BIDING THE STORM. 



'TwAS a dark and dreary autumnal day, 

The summer brightness had passed away : 

'Twas dreary and dark, — and with mournful sound. 

Bringing storm and tempest, the wind rushed round. 

Through an orchard of leafless trees it swept. 

Which shivered and shook as its course it kept. 

While their branches were tossed with a force that proved 

How firm were the roots which remained unmoved. 



BY THE GLEANER. 211 

A mother in Israel raised her head, 

And looked abroad from her dying bed, 

And said, the trees seem e'en firmer now, 

Than when foliage and blossoms were on each bough ; — 

Ah, a time of gloom and of storm is near, 

Of stripping and shaking, — until it appear 

Who shall firmly stand. 

She is gathered home. 
And the time of which she spake has come. 
It has come ! and they fall on either hand. 
As the storm sweeps the length and the breadth of our land. 
But yet there is One who can bid it cease. 
And say to the raging tempest, "Peace.'' 
Oh, surely a remnant preserved shall be, 
Though "scattered and peeled," — e'en a remnant that He 
Will bring through the fire, and try, and refine ; 
They shall call on His name — He shall sa}^. They are mine. 
1858. 

RESIGNATION. 

" Consider the work of God ; for who can make that straight, which He hath made 

crooked ?"— Eccl. 7 : 13. 

Though thy pathway be uneven. 

Do not murmur or repine. 
But unto the will of Heaven, 

In submission humble thine. 

Did we find no cross or trial 
AVith our hopes and joys allied, 

And no cause for self-denial, — 
How would our faith be tried ? 



212 POETICAL PIECES, 

Oh ! let us strive, when bending 

Beneath a load of care. 
To turn to Him who's lending 

An ear to humble prayer ; 
And pra}^, — not that no longer 

Sorrow or care we find, — 
But that our faith grow stronger, 

Our spirits more resigned. 

Led by our wishes blindly. 
How should we go astray. 

If crosses were not kindly 
Placed sometimes in our way! 

Then, — though " crooked " or uneven 

Our pathway, — may we still 
In submission bow to Heaven, 
Our wayward, selfish will. 
1840. 



THE CHRISTIAN'S PATH. 

"We were ascending a mountain, and had frequent views of beauti- 
ful and varied scenery, but could not at any time see far before us 
my companion observed, our road was like that of the Christian." 

Most beautiful and true! — the Christian's path 

Is onward, upward, and though he but see 
A little way before, and cannot know 

What the next prospect, brought to view, may be ; 
He feels his narrow way is safe, and feels 

(Though precipice and pitfall may be near), 
That if he do not pause, or turn aside 

From the plain pathway, there is naught to fear. 



BY THE GLEANER. 213 

Bright, flowery labyrinths may meet his eye, 

With parch'd lips he may hear the murmuring rill, — 

See shaded banks inviting to repose, — 
But his one path is onward, upward still. 

And when, — a point long seen, attained, — he views 

The perils and temptations left behind. 
What cause for humble, fervent gratitude, 

For strengthened faith and patience does he find ; 
And views around, fresh from their Maker's hand. 

Scenes, that, while wandering in the vale below. 
Pierced by its thorns, or culling fading flowers, 

He scarcely dreamed of, or ne'er hoped to know. 
And howe'er short his vision sometimes be. 

An humble trust is to his spirit given. 
That He whose "rod and staff" are with him here, 

Will, through a Saviour's mercy, lead to Heaven. 

Oh! for a single eye to that pure light 

By which such pilgrims on their way are led ; 

Oh ! for a part in the unclouded hope 
That cheers the dying Christianas humblest bed ! 
1844. 

A CONTRITE SPIRIT. 

" Be still, and know that I am God."— Ps. 46 : 10. "The Lord is nigh unto them that 
are of a broken heart ; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit."— Ps. 34 : 18. 

When piercing thorns are 'neath our feet, 
And darkl}^ threat'ning clouds above. 

When narrower, narrow^er, day by daj^. 

Our path becomes — how blessed are they, 

Who, casting fear and doubt away, 
Trust in a gracious Saviour's love ; 
19 



214 POETICAL PIECES, 

Who, bowing in submission, hear 

The awful words, "^e still P^ and know 
That thoughts and feelings cherished long. 
And ruling, in dominion strong. 
The erring heart, so prone to wrong. 
Deep shadows on their pathway throw. 

Oh, for the calm, the holy calm, 
' That only faith and hope impart ! 
The faith and hope in Him alone, 
Who sitteth on the eternal throne. 
Who will the ''contrite spirit '^ own. 

Whose mercy heals the '' broken heart !" 
1844. 



THIRSTING NO MORE. 

" Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again : But whosoever drinketh 
of the water that I shall give him, shall never thirst ; but the water that I shall 
give him shall be in him a well of water sjjringing up into everlasting life." — John 
4 : 13, 14. 

We drink from a fountain of pleasure. 
Whose source is on earth, and we dream 

We have found in its waters a treasure. 
So pure and unmixed do they seem ; 

As the}^ sparkle in brilliance so dazzlingly bright. 

We ask not whence comes that bewildering light. 

But there cometh an hour of waking. 

When, faint and exhausted, we know 
That poisonous draughts we've been taking, — 

Polluted the source whence they flow ; 
When the spirit feels thirst that this world cannot cure, 
That can only be quenched at a fountain more pure. 



BY THE GLEANER. 215 

We are called to partake of the water 

Of life, springing up as of yore, 
When 'twas told to Samaria's daughter, 

" He w^ho drinks shall be thirsty no more." 
Oh ! humbly and gratefully may we receive 
What our Saviour, in mercy, thus offers to give. 
1841. 



HOSPITALITY. 

*'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels 

unawares." — Heb. 13 : 2. 

The wanderer is coming again, to share 

Bright smiles of welcome, and friendly care ; 

The}" have ever been his when he passed that way, 

And tarried from eve till the dawning day, 

They have ever been his, and they touched his heart ; 

It was joy to meet, — it was pain to part ; 

For dear to the wanderer, wherever he roam. 

The kindness and care that remind him of home. 

He has come again, — and in all around. 

Are signs of approaching festivity found ; 

The smiling children who press to his side, 

In whispers tell of a wedding^ — the bride. 

Their beautiful sister, — he breathes a prayer 

That she may be hapj^y, as gentle and fair. 

The guests are assembling, the bridegroom — but now 
Why comes that flush to the wanderer's brow ? 
His quivering lip, and his changing cheek. 
Of deep, overwhelming emotion speak. 
Why fixed on the bridegroom his fiery eye ? 
He knows him a villain of deepest dye! 



216 POETICAL PIECES. 

Knows, long since bis marriage vow was spoken, 
And the faith he plighted unfeelingly broken ; 
That the children and wife he deserted, yet live ; — 
But a whispered threat does that recreant give, 
A threat of deep vengeance, of death^ — should he dare 
That secret to utter ; — and must he then share 
Such guilt ? — every feeling of honor forego ? 
Resign that sweet girl to such misery ? — No 1 
To save her e'en yet, he at least will endeavor. 
He speaks — and the false one is banished forever. 
When the wandering stranger first came that way. 
And a shelter asked at the close of day. 
They were ''not forgetful" (with plenty blessed). 
Of the stranger's claim^ and they bade him rest ; 
They welcomed him still when that way he passed, — 
And rich the reward he brought them at last. 
1838. 



THE END. 



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